A Star Named Wormwood
by Red Jack 87
Summary: It is 1964 and the Greater German Reich envelopes three continents. Hundreds of millions labour beneath the Nazi jackboot. But the heart of Hitler's empire is rotten and bitter, descent is rife, and conspiracy is afoot from the lowliest Major upwards. AU.
1. Conspiracy, Part One

_"And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters; And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter."_

(Revelation 8:10, 11)

Welthauptstadt Germania, 1964

The Fuhrer was dead. And a world mourned.

Reinhard Heydrich, however, did not. Looking out over the spires and domes of the Welthauptstadt, he felt elated, invigorated. The time was now. After eight years of waiting, the time was most defiantly now. He smiled, his gaze sweeping the early morning gloom, across the Pantheon of the Army, the Square of the People and the great Triumphal Arch before settling on the monumental dome of the Volkeshall. Black banners, each bearing the embossed face of the much lamented and dearly missed Fuhrer, had quickly appeared to drape its marble flanks.

Reinhard's smile faded. Josef's sledgehammer subtle touch at work, no doubt. He dearly wished the little cripple would hurry up and join Goering and the rest of the old men in the Palace Necropolis. The fates had been kind enough to remove 'Herr Fuhrer' from his way, and he had dealt with Heinrich himself, but he dared not push his luck further with a second assassination. There were only so many dead Party Officials one could blame on Communist insurgents without making one's own Schutzstaffel look especially incompetent.

Reinhard turned away from the window. 'Of course, this doesn't really benefit us, does it Reichsfuhrer?'. Gauliter Hanke looked from Steiner to Kempf and then back to Reinhard, waiting for an answer.

'Immediately, no, of course it doesn't, we will simply have to accelerate our plans' Reinhard answered as he returned to his desk. He was beginning to regret inviting the Gauliter to this meeting, the man asked such infuriatingly pointless questions. Perhaps that was why he'd remained a Gauliter for the last twenty years, twiddling his thumbs in Silesia, or whatever it was he did to entertain himself.

Reinhard decided he would have him shot and replaced sometime in the near future.

He added a mental emphasis on the _near_ element as Hanke took out one of his obnoxious American cigarettes. A withering glare from Fredrich Kruger who was seated to his left, however, convinced him quickly that to continue was not a wise idea. He sheepishly returned it to the carton in his breast pocket, with a muttered apology. Heydrich took a deep breath as the six men in his office fell silent. This was the point of no return.

'Obergruppenfuhrers', Reinhard began. Felix Steiner, Jurgen Kempf and Kurt Meyer, seated to the right of Hanke in front of Reinhard's desk instantly snapped to attention. Kempf was leaning forward precariously, his anticipation for the orders which they all knew were to come plain for all to see. 'First, gentlemen, what is the status of your units?'.

Meyer quickly answered for all three of them; 'Third SS-Panzer Army has moved into the last stages of mobilization, although the 'Nordland' division is yet to receive the last batch of Leopard II main battle tanks you have allocated'.

Meyer paused and looked up at Reinhard, who waved him onwards; 'you'll get your tanks before zero hour, Meyer, I guarantee it'. The Obergruppenfuhrer nodded assent and continued.

'Second SS-Panzer Army arrived in Bohemia to join them for the 'training exercises' you have arranged, although it will be at least a week before they're entirely combat ready. Further units will have moved into position on the outskirts of Frankfurt, Munich and Hitlerstrass within three days'.

'Good', nodded Henrich, 'step up your deployment of units around Munich, I want a Corps ten kilometres from the home of National Socialism, the entire point of these opening moves is to make it _obvious_ that we are planning to make our strike against the Party, we want to scare them into action'. Meyer again nodded agreement.

'Of course Herr Reichsfuhrer'.

'Secondly.' With some reluctance Henrich returned his attention to the Hanke. 'I would hope you have completed your preparations, Gauliter?'

'Of course Herr Reichsfuhrer. Oberstgruppenfuhrer Nebe has been especially helpful I must add. Our intelligence elements will be able to trigger a widespread slave rebellion across Silesia with only a few days notice, it's really quite ingenious how Artur has orga-' Reinhard cut him off with a wave of his hand. He hated having to entrust such a crucial element of his plan to someone as dimwitted as Gauliter Hanke, but it had been most difficult to recruit any senior administrator in a district close enough to Germania to his cause. The very fact that he had accomplished this, even if the result was only Hanke, was testament to the extent of his influence across the Reich. His appointment of Nebe to supervise the operation, however, was reassuring. Nebe was a man who got things _done. _

'Thirdly, Gruppenfuhrer Reiter', Reinhard continued.

The last Waffen-SS man in the room stepped away from the bust he'd been examining in the shadowed alcove by the door. At six foot four, he cut an imposing figure, handsome, solidly built and with the Knights Cross with swords and oak leaves fastened about his collar – it could have been his face on the SS recruitment posters or television broadcasts Reinhard had taken to organizing over the last few years. Except for his eyes. Although the phrase 'swam with madness' might seem a cliché, there was no other way to describe them – they were positively disturbing, like Rasputin's eyes in the old Tsarist court photographs. They communicated blank horror and vindictive hatred in equal parts, a result no doubt of his extended service in the Einsatzgruppen.

Reinhard knew all of the stories they told about Gruppenfuhrer Reiter. He was one of Otto Skorzeny's most fanatical disciples. He had gone rogue for six months fighting partisans along the mouth of the Volga, setting himself up as some kind of chieftain over roving local bands of Cossacks. He had taken to impaling captured Communists. He collected the right ear of every man he killed. Of course, Reinhard knew that most of them were merely foolish soldiers tales. Most of them.

Reiter may have been a madman, but he was a useful madman, and a legendary commander in addition. Just the sight of his division, the 1st SS Airborne 'Aurvandil', was said to strike mortal terror into the hearts of the Reich's enemies. Reinhard would be most appreciative if, the moment that his helicopters descended on Germania, the NSDAP leadership uniformly keeled over of heart failure. But that would be perhaps presuming a little too much.

Reiter answered Reinhard's next question before the half formed sentence had even passed his lips.

'They are ready Herr Fuhrer, five hundred helicopters and five thousand paratroopers await but your signal, the very instant the Heer lackies move southwards towards Herr Meyer, shitting their breaches as they drive, my men will seize the capital and give you the head of Ernst Kaltenbrunner'.

Reinhard could almost certainly assume that Reiter was speaking literally.

'Speaking of whom', Steiner cut in. 'Are we certain that he will be nominated as the next Fuhrer? The old man has only been dead six hours, and someone else may be having a very similar meeting'.

'Not without my knowledge', Reinhard answered. 'And Kaltenbrunner is the only real choice for the Party, the old man dying a few weeks earlier than expected won't change anything'.

'So', Reinhard continued, 'six days from now, a slave rebellion will sweep across lower Silesia, Slav slave labourers supported by Communists and Soviet agents seeking to take advantage of the death of the Fuhrer will be the catalyst. Oberstgruppenfuhrer Nebe will ensure that the correct forms of atrocities are committed against upstanding, Aryan citizens and quickly broadcast on Radio Germany and Reich Television. Righteously outraged by the actions of the subhuman barbarians, second and third SS panzer armies – currently on training exercises in Bohemia – upon their own initiative will strike northwards to put down the rebellion. Kaltenbrunner proceeds to -'

'Shit his marvellously tailored breeches' interjected Reiter.

'Yes, something to that effect, and sees the rebellion for what it is – an excuse to move SS panzer units towards the capital', Reinhard finished. 'But that is precisely what we want him to do. Within hours he will have stripped Germainia of its defences and launched every Heer soldier he can find south to beat our forces into Silesia'.

'At which point the Gods shall enter Valhalla'. Reiter again added. 'The code will reach my division and Aurvandil will descend on Germania with thunder in our hearts and Wagner in our ears'. He grinned his lopsided grin, which only added another dimension to his repulsive aura – Heydrich had only ever met one other man with a grin quite that...unique. 'And on our loud speakers'.

'To the detriment of the NSDAP leadership' Reinhard finished.

This time it was Meyer, ever the pragmatist, who interrupted. 'How can we be certain that the Wehrmacht won't turn inwards and crush us? Our units are formidable, but heavily outnumbered'.

'Generalfeldmarschal Hoth, of army group Scandinavia and Generalfeldmarschal von Luck, of army group Africa are committed to our cause Obergruppenfuhrer, and my good friend Erhard effectively runs the Luftwaffe, you have nothing to fear'.

'It's not Hoth or von Luck or even Erhard we need to worry about Reinhard, it's von Manstein, it's Guderian and von Manteuffel, it's army group East. They have three times the resources of any of the other four army groups – they could crush us'.

'The luminaries of Army group East will accept me as Fuhrer when they see two other army groups and the entire damn Luftwaffe swear allegiance to me. They will accept me as Fuhrer when the German people rejoice to see me in the Palace that Adolf built, I was his chosen successor. _Me_. Not Martin Borman and certainly not Ernst-fucking-Kaltenbrunner! _Me!'_ Reinhard took another deep breath and calmed himself. 'I will not be passed over a second time'. He sat back in his chair and smoothed his suddenly ruffled hair with one hand.

Steiner had paled visibly at Heydrich's outburst. 'That is all gentlemen, you know your tasks – go to them'. Almost all, at least, Reinhard contemplated as they filed out of his office. But he wasn't willing to share the last dimension of his plan even with his closest confidants. It was too dangerous by far. Maddeningly so, almost.

Reinhard Heydrich, Reichsfuhrer-SS, and currently the second most powerful man in the Greater German Reich, suppressed a shudder and picked up his pen. There was still work to be done, after all.

* * *

Heydrich's intercom buzzed frustratingly. He shoved another pile of deportation orders to one side and slapped the button. He had been dreading this since the moment his men had filed out of his office two days ago; he knew he would get this call. He had invited him, after all. Nevertheless, he had still hoped to postpone the inevitable until the absolute last moment.

'A Sturmbannfuhrer has just arrived sir, he says you are expecting him', his secretary's almost painfully young voice crackled. Heydrich sighed, stood up and smoothed his dress uniform, slightly adjusting the Iron Cross around his neck.

He pressed the second button on the little intercom box 'Thank you, Magda'. Heydrich strode out of his office and into the lobby beyond, the two bodyguards on his door dropping into step a respectful distance behind him. He quickly left his private rooms and stepped out into one of the half-dozen cavernous reception halls of the Reich's Chancellery. Leaning on one of the twenty great marble pillars that supported the roof, a few meters to Heydrich's right, waited someone Reinhard had made a habit of avoiding for the last twenty years.

A fat little Sturmbannfuhrer, bespectacled and heading towards obesity, he couldn't have looked less disarming if he had consciously tried. Until he smiled. Like a wolf. Which was ironic, indeed, when Reinhard took into account the hulking Hauptman, all brooding silence and heavy storm coat, shadowing the little man. That smile suddenly reminded him of why he disliked this particular pet monster of his rather more than the others, Reiter included. He clapped him on the shoulder as he flashed his own smile back at him.

'Sturmbannfuhrer! It is so good to see you again! Sometimes I think we have lost you and that Doctor of yours entirely in the bowels of the Wewelsburg'.

The little man continued to grin as he too dropped into step with Heydrich, the two of them heading towards the Chancellery motor pool. 'We're not quite lost yet, Herr Reichsfuhrer' he answered.

'I'd hope not, we have a particularly sensitive assignment that you and your group of...unique... individuals are well suited to'.

'Oh? Really? A sensitive assignment, you say?' He exuded an almost childish glee at the news. 'Watching the Doctor experiment gets terribly dull, you know. There are only so many vivisections one can tolerate. Isn't that so Captain?' The Sturmbannfuhrer twisted to address his bodyguard, who, responded with a mask of stony silence.

'Well...erm, yes quite so Sturmbannfuhrer. And I would appreciate you addressing your staff with the correct SS titles, at least in my presence'.

'Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer, of course'. The five of them entered one of the private elevators at the far end of the reception hall and one of Reinhard's bodyguards thumbed the 'Motorpool' button. 'This wouldn't have something to do with your little coup, would it Herr Reichsfuhrer?'.

Heydrich twisted in surprise, his face shifting from shock, to horror and then finally to anger. 'How the hell-'

'Oh Herr Reichsfuhrer we all have our sources do we not? Political espionage is a hobby of mine, you might say. And no, of course I haven't told anyone, except Captain here and he won't be talking to Herr Kaltenbrunner, will you Captain?'.

The four other occupants of the elevator all turned to look at the huge SS officer. Who again responded with a blank face and total silence.

'See?' smiled the little Sturmbannfuhrer. 'Total secrecy'. He tapped the side of his nose with one gloved finger. 'Total'. The doors ground open and the group slipped out of the elevator, heading for the waiting motorcade. The Sturmbannfuhrer joined Heydrich in the waiting Mercedes limousine, whilst the three bodyguards rode in the armoured Volkswagen behind. The two of them sat in silence as the limousine and its escort vehicles, including four SS motorcycle outriders swung out from under the Chancellery and onto the streets of the Welthauptstadt. Streets that were almost entirely deserted. One hundred and fifty thousand carefully approved citizens were filling the Volkeshalle on the other side of the capital and millions more had been given the day off work to 'return to the family in this time of national tragedy', as Herr Goebels had put it. No doubt they would already be intently watching the first colour pictures from within the great hall on their television sets.

'It will be an impressive funeral, you think, Herr Reichsfuhrer?'

'Certainly, Kaltenbrunner loves his pomp and circumstance like an Englishman. He'll not let his mentor be interred next to Adolf without half the globe seeing it'.

The Sturmbannfuhrer snorted with laughter. 'Herr Borman would have hated it then, all that bunting is so _expensive_'. This managed to raise a smile from Reinhard, even after the events in the elevator. He turned to look out of the window as the cars swept gracefully into the Pantheon of the Army and under the Triumphal Arch. Its marble flanks were carved with the names of every soldier to have died in the Great War of German Destiny. At least that was what they said, although Heydrich firmly doubted it. As they passed under the gargantuan arch and back into the sunlight, he decided that it was time to begin talking of more important matters.

'I want you to go to England for me Sturmbannfuhrer, and bring me something back'.

'England? How disappointing. I was hoping you'd send me to Russia. I've a longing to see the great Soviet capital of Omsk before Comrade Secretary Beria purges everyone still foolish enough to live there'. He snickered again. Reinhard withdrew a painfully thin file from his jacket and dropped it into the Sturmbannfuhrer's lap.

'On the contrary, I'm sure you will be quite entertained'.

The wolfish grin the Sturmbannfuhrer had worn in the reception hall returned as he opened the file and began to flick through the papers and photographs within. 'We both know there is only one thing in England that ever interested you'.

'The Hellsing agency'.

'The Hellsing agency', Reinhard agreed. 'A new source in the British resistance has been quite helpful in relation to your target. Go to the Hellsing manor. He will meet you there'.

'The file doesn't state exactly what I'm looking for Herr Reichsfuhrer', the little man whined as he continued to skim over the few papers he had in front of him. 'How am I to retrieve my target if I don't know what my target is?'.

'You know very well what you're target is!' Heydrich snapped. 'This will be the fourth time we have sent you to England looking for it'. The Sturmbannfuhrer was snickering again. 'We lost it when we broke the agency in 1941. We've still no idea how they got it out of London, under our noses. English bastards. I'll have them strung up with the same damn piano wire we did for Arthur Hellsing with if we ever catch them'.

'May I ask what you intend to do with it Herr Reichsmarshall?'.

'You may not Sturmbannfuhrer'. Heinrich was not ready to reveal that to anyone yet, especially not a maniac like him. 'This time, find it, and take it back to Wewelsburg. I will meet you there'. The car rolled to a halt before the Volkeshalle. Esteemed representatives of the world's press, including a handful of closely monitored American journalists, attempted to mob the car as Reinhard stepped out, but a thin cordon of black shirted SS police officers held them back. Beyond them, vast crowds surrounded the Great Hall. Hundreds of thousands strong they pushed forward, desperate no doubt to feel a part of history. A part of the history of the Greater German Reich. To say, I was there, there when they buried Martin Borman, when they made Ernst Kaltenbrunner Fuhrer.

Who ruled shorter than any other.

Heydrich adopted a suitable expression of solemn grief and whispered into the Sturmbannfuhrer's ear as he came to stand next to him 'you have one week'.


	2. Conspiracy, Part Two

Wewelsburg City, Westphallia 1964

The Major idly contemplated the cobweb of light thousands of feet below him. Wewelsburg City had been Himmler's Magnus Opus, he had supervised every facet of its construction. His influence showed most dramatically from the air. Radiating outwards from its ancient heart, the Castle, the entire fortress-city sprawled in a criss-crossing geometric web. The Major understood that it was something to do with 'Geomancy', never a field he had been particularly interested in, but apparently something that the last Reichsfuhrer-SS had obsessed over.

Right up until Lieutenant Blitz had twisted his head clean off of his shoulders.

He had very much wished to have seen that, but Heydrich had been most pedantic in his instructions. Assassination had always been a messy and complicated business. And therefore something which the Major took great pleasure in. Unfortunately the latest Reichsfuhrer-SS was not so bold as to allow one of his known 'associates' to take such a practical hand in murder – the risk of discovery no doubt something to do with his fears.

The Major began to pick out the features of the city from his passenger window as his plane swept in to land. The 'Michael Wittman' barracks, an extensive four story training complex, its yards packed with row upon row of the latest model of the Leopard II battle tank, could be picked out to his right. Beyond that, extensive housing complexes for the SS soldiers, administrators, workers and scientists, as well as their families, who made up the bulk of the Wewelsburg's population. To his left a series of office blocks stretched into the darkness, each housing the individual bureaus of the SS Office for Race and Resettlement.

A quaintly sanitary tile for an organisation that had made the sight of a Jew between Dublin and Western Siberia something akin to the sight of an elf.

As his plane squealed onto the runway the Major sprang to his feet and made for the door, the only other passenger, his ever present bodyguard, Gunsche, trailing behind. He hauled the door open and sprang down the steps, grinning incessantly to himself. He was glad to be back at the Wewelsburg. The sooner he arrived the sooner he could leave for England. And he could get something to eat, to boot.

As he strode across the asphalt a single gaunt figure, clad in a black SS uniform and white lab coat, slipped from the night. 'A productive trip to the capital, Herr Major?'.

'As ever Doctor. The Blond Butcher has given us a "special assignment" '.

'Do they still call him that?'.

'Of course, he hasn't tried particularly strenuously to erase his past moniker since we murdered him into higher office'.

'And he still calls _us _insane?' Doc replied, assuming a tone of mock incredulously.

'Of course, we scare him almost as much as a Communist Hydrogen bomb... more even than Herr Reiter does, for that matter'. The three of them passed into the main airport terminal, the Major flicked a salute at the guards and they let them pass without a second glance. As they reached the Doctor's waiting Volkswagen, the Major began to explain Reinhard's "Special Assignment".

'You'll be required to leave your toys for a few days, I'm afraid, Doctor'. This drew a long suffering sigh from Doc as the three of them clambered into the back of his car.

'I'm spending far too much time away from my laboratory, at present, Herr Major'.

'Oh, I'm sure that you'll enjoy this particular mission Doctor. We're not butchering partisans in the Piripat marshes, or even chasing after Iscariot.'

'Really? I was hoping I would have the opportunity to dissect that Regenerator of theirs sometime soon'. Doc rubbed his chin thoughtfully as the SS chauffeur pulled his car away from the curb. He had obviously forgotten to change his surgical gloves with the rest of his uniform, and he left a smear of blood across his ghostly pale face.

'You can have the Paladin the moment we find him. Captain was most disappointed the last time he escaped us, weren't you Captain?'. Captain kept his eyes fixed firmly out of the window. 'The Italian Alps are far too large even for us to search thoroughly; we will root the Catholics out later, when greater resources are available'. The Doctor nodded, slightly disappointed.

'Heydrich has found us a new source on _its_ location'. Doc instantly brightened. 'We're going to England, again', the Major continued. 'I want you to mobilize everyone you can Doc. _Everyone_. Millennium is moving in force to London for at least the next fortnight. Has anyone else returned while I've been away?'

'Lieutenant Blitz's Einstazkommando three returned yesterday and "Rip van Winkle", as she's taken to calling herself, returned with Einstazkommando eight not long after you left'. The Major nodded in satisfaction. Einstazkommando groups one and four remained in Wewelsburg as a reserve force anyway, so four of the ten autonomous Millennium squadrons should be a strike force effective enough to complete any mission.

'If I might be so bold, Herr Major, one of my latest experiments – "Chimera", has entered its last phases. It's quite ready for field testing. May I add it to the personnel from the Einsatzkomando units?'

'Of course Doc, the more of your freaks we have in tow the more interesting this entire "jaunt" will be'. The Doctor smiled his appreciation but the Major was no longer paying attention. He had his own plans to put into motion.


	3. Conspiracy, Part Three

Wewelsburg Castle, Wewelsburg City, Westphalia, 1964

The Zeppelin was huge. Monstrous. The largest ever constructed, and the last to roll out of the Eckener Works before Martin Bormann had the factory closed and dismantled, almost a decade ago.

The Major never ceased to be impressed by the sheer _size_ of the thing. Gunmetal grey, with the Eagle of the Empire emblazoned proudly, thirty feet high, on its flank, it reduced a man to the mentality of an insect simply by standing in its presence. The works had dubbed it 'LZ-5098 _Der Herman Goering_'.

Perhaps someone's idea of a joke.

The Major had renamed it; the Luftwaffe's pampered prince had never climbed particularly high in his esteem. He called it _'Nineveh'_.

Perhaps that was his idea of a joke as well.

However huge the _Nineveh_ was it too was dwarfed by the gargantuan hanger that it sat in, so massive that, as the Major strode across it, its great steel rafters were lost in shadow hundreds of feet above. He threaded between the stacks of ammunition crates, medical supplies and parked vehicles to reach the mustering ground under the airship's nose. The troops he had ordered gathered, four elite Einstazkommando, milled around in a disorganised fashion, sitting on the crates and gossiping idly, smoking, laughing, swapping stories.

The Doctor had arrived already, eager to get underway, and was going over the personnel roster with Blitz and 'Rip van Winkle', demonstrating his inherent fastidiousness by double checking the lists of provisions and materials being transferred into the airship, and pedantically questioning the two lieutenants on the strength and combat effectiveness of their respective units. He looked up sharply as he caught sight of the Major emerging from the gloomy maze of boxes, and into the harsh electric flood light thrown by the Airship's running lamps.

'We are almost complete Herr Major, ammunition and provisions are loaded, and the men are embarking'.

'Excellent work Doc'. Although 'men' perhaps wasn't the right word. The Einstazkommando were each made up of between eight and sixteen operatives, few of which could specifically be regarded as 'men'.

Their number included several of the Doctor's prized artificial vampires, who were clustered together at the foot of the ramp leading up and into the belly of the Zeppelin, each silently and professionally cleaning and checking their Stg-47's. Slumped against a large crate to their right sat Hermann Schmeisser, his huge .577 Elephant Gun across his lap. His hair was dirty and lank, ingrained with filth, and his uniform was little cleaner – ragged and torn, he refused to have it replaced. The rest of the Einstazkommando called him 'Huntsman', on account of the disproportionate amount of time he seemed to spend in the game reserves on the edge of the city.

Beyond him, a half dozen cleaner cut figures were ascending the ramp, they were the Doctor's pet psychics. Each of them uniquely talented and recruited from the four corners of the Reich, a pyrokinetic, a telepath, a psychic-blank and others stranger besides.

Stamping out cigarettes with their boots and falling in behind the psychics were the actual humans in the outfit. Waffen-SS Combat veterans from the Guerrilla war in the Ukraine, the Major had had them included to add some experienced backbone to the group; with the intention of having them turned into artificials should they prove themselves.

'TO WAR GENTLEMEN!' the Major bellowed across the concrete mustering ground, his voice amplified into a thunderous echo by the cavernous hanger. This raised a ragged cheer from the troops as they filed onto the _Nineveh_, Schmeisser bringing up the rear in his peculiar laconic fashion. The Major, now alone except for the Doctor, his two Lieutenants and the Captain, who had silently appeared to shadow him, began his slow walk towards the Zeppelin.

'Blitz', the Major began 'I've transferred your unit to Schmeisser's command – I've a job here in Germany for you'. Somewhat predictably, Lieutenant Blitz did not take this with all the correct decorum of an SS officer.

'What! But Major, we've…_I've_ been waiting for this chance for years – I was there, I saw that thing, and that fucking _Butler_ gave me _this_' she spat, gesturing at the livid mass of scar tissue that had replaced her left eye so long ago. 'I almost had him in '46, in Cardiff, the Captain was their too – you can't blame me, then again in '54, you can't-'.

'Enough Lieutenant', the Major cut her off with a sharp hand gesture, 'I did not blame _you_ for the failure of either operation, and that isn't the reason why I've transferred your command'. He stopped and turned to face her, withdrawing a heavy brown folder stamped with the Millennium Eagle from within his coat. 'This folder contains the general details of Herr Heydrich's little putsch, take it, infiltrate the NSDAP building in the capital – and leave it on Kaltenbrunner's desk six days from today'.

The shock, not just on Blitz's, but also on the Doctor's and Rip Van Winkle's faces was obvious, and sudden. 'But, Herr Major he will not listen, he would never give credence to Millennium, he would think it Heydrich's trick' interjected Doc.

'Oh, of course he will – but he is too paranoid by far to ignore it totally – it will provide him with a healthy dose of caution when he sees Heydrich's opening moves'.

'It will be civil war' Van Winkle stated bluntly, 'if Kaltenbrunner has even a hint of what Heydrich is planning – Reiter's helicopters will come crashing down in flames, the SS and Heer will be at each other's throats within hours'.

'It will be marvellous' the Major grinned. 'Civil War, brother against brother, neighbour against neighbour, families torn apart, the Reich in flames - once more'. He began to walk again, towards the Zeppelin, the others trailing in his wake. 'Of course Heydrich will soon discover it was us, but it won't matter' his grin only got wider 'by then it will be too late for them all'.

* * *

Aboard the _Nineveh_, above northern France, 1964

The Major grimaced as the Doctor's latest project slammed its considerable bulk against the flank of its reassuringly solid container. Despite the fact that it was solid steel, broken only by a single foot wide air hole, the 'Chimera' had managed to overwhelm the airship's filtration system with its stink. The vast cargo hold smelled not unlike a Zoo, at the moment.

'Is it entirely…controllable, Doctor?'

'Oh, quite, Herr Major' Doc replied, 'the fusion left the subject rather insane, however. An unfortunate side effect, but not unexpected'.

'The final process will be more reliable, I trust?'

'Of course Herr Major – the 'Chimera' is just an aberration, a genetic experiment, a trial run, a detritus of material that gathered in the wake of the final project. 'Myrmidon' will be perfect, I guarantee it'.

'As it should be, Doc' the Major muttered, giving the container a solid kick, and setting the thing inside bellowing and thrashing about like a wounded bear again. 'It's certainly aggressive, I'll give you that. I do hope I'll not have to have Schmeisser put a round in this one's head, Doc'.

The ship's intercom buzzed into life before the Doctor could reply, after a burst of static the monotone voice of the Airship Commander washed through the cargo hold 'twenty minutes until United Kingdom airspace'.

'Marvellous. I suppose we should leave this thing to its…whatever it does, and return to the bridge'.

'As you wish Herr Major', the Doctor replied.

The two of them soon threaded their way out of the cargo hold and up through the bowels of the Zeppelin, past sweating gangs of ratings, Slavs from the eastern provinces mainly, who laboured ceaselessly to keep the _Nineveh _in the air. Winding up, dark, narrow steel sub-corridors at first, and then through the more spacious, tastefully neo-classical passenger areas and finally out onto the cavernous bridge.

A huge 180 degree screen of acrylic glass made up the fore-wall of the command deck, separating them from the bitter autumn night. There were banks of instruments sunken into the steel flooring before it, around which clustered the hosts of Luftwaffe crew, their faces illuminated in the ethereal green light of radar screens. High above the deck crew hung the Commander's platform, suspended from a thirty metre long strut and densely packed with helm and navigational equipment. The Airship Commander, an old Baden aristocrat, and a 'von Zeppelin' no less, sprang stiffly to attention as the Major and his Doctor entered.

'As you were, Commander', the Major spoke up to him.

'Gatwick Aerodrome has requested we alter our destination to Heathrow, sir, they claim insurgent activity has damaged the Airship hangers – fires and the like'.

With a sigh and a brief rolling of his eyes the Major acknowledged him 'go ahead Commander; we wouldn't want to be landing like the _Hindenburg_'.

'Aye sir' he replied with some evident relief.

'I hear the insurgency is spiralling out of control, these days, Herr Major'.

'When, Doc, do you think that the insurgency was ever _under_ control?' The Doctor's only reply was a brief smirk and a slight shrug of the shoulders.

Great Britain had never proved itself the most stable nation in the European Economic Community. A number of European nations; primarily the United Kingdom, France, Belgium, Holland, Spain, Portugal, Rumania and Bulgaria had been spared direct German occupation or annexation after the peace settlements of 1946. Although all but Spain and Rumania had been invaded, conquered and finally purged by the Greater German State – they had ultimately been given nominal 'independence', and formed into the 'Greater German Co-prosperity Sphere' – or European Economic Community. Together, they formed the shield of the Reich, facing ever westwards they guarded the entire continent against the encroaching trans-Atlantic giant; the United States.

Britain, never content with its position as Heimdall to the Reich's Asgard, as Herr Hitler had always put it, eternally strained to break free. General malcontent was perpetually on the brink of boiling into open revolt and from there to civil war, particularly in Scotland and the north. So much so that the national conservative government had been forced to establish its own Schutzstaffel, the infamous _SS-GB_, to the detriment of the whole nation, no doubt.

Sudden flashes of crimson and gold on the horizon snapped the Major from his political reverie. Tiny pinpricks of light stabbed back and forth.

He smiled involuntarily and laughed;

'_Bring me my Bow of burning gold; Bring me my Arrows of Desire; Bring me my Spear; O clouds unfold! Bring me my Chariot of Fire!'_


	4. The House That Jack Built, Part One

Heathrow Aerodrome, London, 1964

It was raining.

Just a little at first it seemed, but then more, torrential almost, as the Major left the protective bulk of his monstrous airship behind and strode out onto the asphalt runway, hastily tugging his storm coat up around his neck as he did so, to ward off the biting wind and whipping rain squalls.

Behind him came the Doctor, fiddling absently with a short range radio, and scraping his soaked straw blond hair out of his face. He was currently under the impression that they had missed something of some considerable importance whilst they were airborne. A pace or two behind him again came the Captain, seemingly oblivious to the hostile weather, as impassive to the howling gale as to anything else.

The Doctor seemed to have found something on his radio and proceeded to attempt to holler whatever it was over the wind and rain to the Major. He wasn't particularly interested however, and he continued towards the cluster of black uniformed figures lightly jogging over to meet them.

A thunderous roar audible above the storm, even, suddenly split the night, followed an instant later by a string of intense flashes on the far side of the aerodrome. The group running to meet the Millennium officers ducked instinctively, but kept moving – the lead man quickly reached the Major and swiftly began talking in particularly broken German and waving his arms around wildly. Before he could deliver his message with any degree of coherence, the Doctor, jamming the small radio against his superiors left ear, beat him to the punch;

'…_and, reports are very confusing at the moment_' came the clipped tones of the London BBC _'…but it would seem that terrorist forces are confirmed to have struck at the capital, Manchester, Birmingham, Coventry, Bristol, Newcastle and Edinburgh…there has been no news as of yet from Glasgow, although locals from beyond the city limits have reported "smoke and fire on the horizon" this is a black day for all Englishmen…our rightful monarch, King Edward VIII, may God rest his soul, murdered in cold blood by suicide bombers from a world away, the traitor Churchill, from his hole in Canada, cawing "Cry Havoc…" '_

'…and let slip the dogs of war' the Major finished. 'I have always been a fan of dear old Winnie, he has always had that Shakespearean touch, don't you think Doc?'

'Oh yes Herr Major – we shall fight them in the towns and in the cities indeed', he smiled, dropping the radio back to his side.

The half a dozen individuals who had braved the weather to come and meet them clustered around the three officers as they ducked into the nearest hanger.

'In English, please, spare us your "German"' the Major managed to get in between the unsophisticated gesticulating and breathless half-yelling of what was now revealed under the hanger lights to be an SS-GB lieutenant.

'O-of course…erm, sir. I guess you've heard it then, King Eddie has left us, British-Jews did it they say, from Canada – Christ alone knows how they got in, whole country's in chaos, sir – fightin' and riotin' and such like. People are sayin' bring back the Queen and down with the Tories sir. We-'

'I don't care about your internal politicking Lieutenant – give us the escorts and trucks we arranged – and set to defending the _Nineveh_'.

'A-aye sir, o-of course sir. The trucks are waiting around the back of the next hanger up. There's good men with em' they'll get you to wherever you want to go – no problems'.

The Major gave him a curt nod and turned out towards the storm, his two subordinates turning to follow. A second man stepped forward from the group of SS-GB officers, an unruly mop of blond hair obscuring most of his face 'I'm sorry sir, the lieutenant seems to have forgotten his orders in the commotion – I'm your SS-GB liaison officer' he extended his hand 'second lieutenant Andrew Victoria, sir'.

* * *

North of London, 1964 

The Millennium convoy continued to grind through the night, headlamps blazing, thirty trucks and armoured personal carriers threading their way carefully down narrow country lanes and through deserted villages, made an odd, yet intimidating sight for the few passersby, bold, or foolish, enough to remain out on such a night.

The black, rolling hills behind them were silhouetted against the sky, not by the rising sun, still hours away, but instead by undulating waves of fire, with towering columns of black smoke rising hundreds of feet above them. The air stank of cordite and napalm, twin squadrons of Me-376 _Reaver_ fighter bombers rapidly disappearing over the horizon, having delivered their lethal cargo on some unfortunate target far out of sight, mere moments ago.

The Major stood, utterly exposed, on the roof plate of the third APC in the convoy, sitting next to him was Hermann Schmeisser, dangling his legs over the edge of the small tank – watching the pitch black countryside whistle past in a blur, and behind him his ever present bodyguard.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the stomach churning stench of chemical fire and burnt flesh, all the while singing ponderously to himself;

_And did those feet in ancient time _

_Walk upon England's mountains green? _

_And was the holy lamb of God _

_On England's pleasant pastures seen? _

_And did the Countenance Divine _

_Shine forth upon our clouded hills? _

_And was Jerusalem builded here _

_Among these dark Satanic Mills? _

He laughed and turned to Schmeisser, 'Wonderful, isn't it Sergeant?'

'Not really, Herr Major' he answered '– you're not much of a tenor'.

This only made him laugh the harder, he opened his mouth to continue, but was cut off – much to Schmeisser's relief - by the sight of a blackened shell of a manor house poking over the trees ahead. The hatch of the APC abruptly flipped open and the SS-GB liaison officer's head was thrust out 'the driver says we're nearly at the Hellsing Manor sir, only a few more minuets'.

'I see it Mister Victoria', he paused briefly before continuing, 'it's been a long time'.

The column soon crossed onto the old mansion's grounds, through its rusted iron gates – one of which hung precariously from its ancient hinges, and up the weed chocked, overgrown driveway to halt in the courtyard, well within the shadow of the gutted building. Most of its windows had been blown out, almost certainly in the initial battle for the manor between SS troops and stubborn English defenders. The grand doorways yawned empty, the great oak doors themselves long since destroyed or removed, its hoary brick walls fire blackened and broken in a hundred places. The entire west wing had collapsed; the Major remembered that, it was where Arthur Hellsing and his cronies had made their last stand. They'd been blasted out by 88's, and the survivors strung up with piano wire.

It had all been a distraction, though, and he cursed himself everyday for not seeing it. His superiors had not had the necessary foresight, either, but that had never been of much consolation.

'I'm surprised the new government never had it demolished' the Doctor commented, as he came to stand at the Major's right shoulder, he having just jumped down from his vehicle.

'I'd be surprised if the new government even knows what this place was', he replied.

'And…er…what exactly "was" it, sir?' came the cockney tones of Lieutenant Victoria, freshly emerged from the APC and with a half-dozen SS-GB troopers behind him.

'Nothing for you to be concerned about' the major replied without taking his eyes off of the ruined manor. 'Spread your men around the grounds, set up a perimeter – speak to the Lieutenant with the flintlock musket and Schmeisser – their men will join you'.

As the young man saluted smartly and about faced to go about his work, the Doctor spoke up again. 'A little cautious tonight, Herr Major?'

'I don't trust this…place, and I don't trust Heydrich and his damn sources either' he turned away from his examination of the building 'go and have 'Chimera' unloaded Doc, lets err on the side of caution'.

Doc nodded his assent and left the Major, who remained standing before the entrance with the Captain at his shoulder and a dozen Einstazkommando at his back. He took his first step towards the manor house, drawing his sidearm and waving his men in behind him 'ready weapons gentlemen – the Devil knows what could be in here'.


	5. The House That Jack Built, Part Two

The Hellsing Manor, 1964

The glory days of the antique mansion; with its floors of marble, panels of English Oak and windows of delicate stained crystal – were long gone, not unlike the organization which once operated from within its ancient limestone walls. Now, its floors were cracked and broken, its oak panels warped from wind and water, its delicate stained crystal smashed or stolen and its limestone walls blackened by fire within and without.

The Major kicked aside the rubble of a broken marble bust that may once have echoed the stern, patriarchal features of the long deceased King George VI and skipped gingerly over a foot wide hole in the floor, which yawned out into empty, stygian darkness far, far below.

'Heydrich's source wasn't particularly specific about location gentlemen, so spread out, fire teams in the east wing and second and third storeys, back here in thirty minuets'. A chorus of acknowledgement echoed around the sad, decrepit entrance hall as the Einstazcommando separated into threes and fours, disappearing into the apertures along the walls that may once have passed for doors. With his 'men' dispersed, the Major then proceeded up the wide flight of stairs at the head of the hallway, across mould stained, green streaked carpets that may have been a regal purple in better days. The slate roof – shattered as it was, allowed continual trickles of dirty brown water to leak down through the structure, even as far as the first floor, which seemed to have ruined anything of value which remained in the manor.

Followed by the Captain, he tailed one of the second storey fire teams as they methodically swept the building, breaking down crumbling, worm-eaten doors and occasionally calling out in broken English for the Reichsfuhrer-SS's elusive 'contact'. Slowly but surely they worked their way along the entire floor, until they reached a great tear in the structure, where the level above them disappeared entirely and the dangerously eroded floor boards continued out into open space.

On the very end of the most hazardously protruding of the boards stood a solitary, silent figure facing out towards the darkness and the heavens. Tall, slender and with a short pony tail, he slowly turned towards the Millennium troops, the three Einstazcommando warily advancing in turn towards him with weapons raised, the Major a few steps behind them, and the Captain a mammoth stride to the rear.

Somewhat anachronistically he wore a monocle over his left eye, and under his smart, well pressed black overcoat he wore a black waistcoat, black pin striped shirt and spotless black trousers.

But his eyes.

Burning red.

Terrible, darkest crimson.

Like hellfire.

'Maybe not the Devil himself, Herr Major' he leered with an awful half-smile, 'but perhaps you would settle for an _Angel of Death_?'

* * *

'Gods' came the Major's reply, hoarse and no more than a whisper.

'You're one of _them_, boy'.

'I imagine you must have been looking for something…someone, to come all the way out here?' he continued, pulling a battered and generally spherical object out from behind his back. 'It wouldn't be this, would it, Herr Major?' he asked, dangling it from left to right in front of the increasingly edgy Einstazcommando.

He held it up, under the pale moonlight.

It was a severed head.

It's once portly features smashed and beaten into an unrecognisable pulp.

_'__Meine__Ehre__heißt__Treue__Sturmbannfuhrer__'_.

The Captain, in a blur of supernatural speed, was the first of the Millennium troops to react. One of his huge Broomhandle Mauser's was up and leveled in a split second. An instant later, the shadows of the broken corridor with banished by the phosphorescent glare of muzzle flashes. Three 9mm rounds thundered towards the motionless _creature_, still perched nonchalantly on its deteriorating ledge.

And three 9mm rounds were neatly clipped from the air.

Whirling monofilament lines of titanium alloy, slicing through the walls all around them, whipped chunks of aged plaster and wood into a miniature tempest of debris, cutting each bullet into harmless fragments long before they reached their intended target.

With an un-natural sinuosity so disturbing it half suggested sentience, the wires swept out again and wrapped themselves around the Captain's forearm and torso, pinning his gun harmlessly to his chest and, then, with gargantuan vigour, the thing on the ledge _pulled_. The Einstazcommando watched half in amazement and half in pure terror as the Captain, almost eight foot tall, by far the largest man any of them had ever seen, was _swept off of the ledge and out - into the Abyss_.

'Mein Gott - Eintragfaden, Eintragfaden, Eintragfaden!' the lead trooper began screaming, his Stg-47 springing into life and hosing what was suddenly empty space with a storm of bullets.

But a mere human, despite bitter years of combat and bloody warfare, stood no chance against a Nosferatu, a Midian, _a__true vampire_. He, and the second of his three companions - also human, was sliced into a thousand gory chunks as a vague blur of movement swept between them, a vague blur of movement which coalesced back into 'human' form a half stride from the Major.

Walter C. Dornez.

The Hellsing family Butler.

That unforgettable Angel of Death.

His wires spinning about in a demented flurry, silhouetting him with a lurid halo of steel, Walter resumed his mocking half smile.

The third member of the Major's fire team was not so slow, however, rather – he too reacted with un-natural celerity.

An artificial.

This, as far as the Major knew, would be the first time that a man-made, technologically produced vampire faced that most ancient and implacable of human foes.

The Millennium vampire grabbed his superior around the collar and sprang backwards in a single huge leap, back down the corridor. He obviously remained in shock, however, through the splattered viscera and blood of his deceased comrades that covered his face the Major could clearly see that his eyes were wide and staring – he was running on base fighting instinct, terror and little else.

As the pair of them half landed, half fell to the floor in a shambolic heap the artificial began firing wildly, holding his assault rifle like a pistol, back towards the approaching vampire. Each bullet, however, was claimed by the whirling wires, every one disappearing in a shower of sparks on impact with the razor sharp lines. By the time his clip had run dry, the din of his weapon suddenly replaced by a series of hollow 'thunks', the Major had separated himself from his subordinate and had razed his own side arm – a Walther P5 – ready to fire.

'Is this _it_? The vaunted _Millennium_ – guardians of the indestructible thousand year Reich – is this _everything_ you have? Pour shame!' the Butler mocked, taking slow, deliberate steps forward, his wires still spiralling frantically around him, tearing the creaking structure down as he passed.

A single line shot out from the spinning mass surrounding him, and efficiently severed the artificial's arm, sending it, empty gun and all, cart wheeling off in a welter of blood. Before he even had chance to cry out, a second wire wrapped around his neck and neatly whipped his head clean off of his shoulders.

'Pathetic!' the Butler laughed.

The Major slowly lowered his side arm, it was useless anyway. He was grinning his own, particular mocking smirk, now though. 'Perhaps we have a little more for you yet, Angel of Death'. He could hear the pounding of footsteps on the stairs behind him – surely the rest of his men, drawn by the din of combat.

'You underestimate us, I think – Walter'.

The sharp click of a hammer being cocked, mere centimetres from his left ear drew the Major's attention - his reinforcements had arrived. He looked over his shoulder…straight down the barrel of an Enfield service revolver.

'Guten Tag!' came the cheerful tones of his SS-GB liaison officer. Behind him were two of his English policemen, both with bolt action rifles squarely levelled at the Major.

'Is there NO ONE in this thrice damned country with a shred of honesty about them?' he asked, bluntly and brazenly, at the evidently treacherous Englishmen.

The young man suddenly became quite serious, 'fuck you Nazi' he spat. 'The nations gonna' rise again' and made to pull the trigger of his pistol.

The Major could not help but be struck by the ignominy of the whole thing.

* * *

A great chunk of plaster coated wood abruptly crashed to the floor between them.

Followed by another and then another and another, until finally it became a torrent of falling masonry – the three SS-GB men sensibly snapped their weapons up, towards the growing aperture in the roof, even the Butler – having idly advanced to within a few paces of the confrontation – seemed surprised.

Over the cacophony of splintering wood, what was at first a snarl – but soon a deep, bass _howl_ was keenly heard by all.

The howl of a wolf.

The floor above swiftly caved in under the frenzied assault from the next storey up, and a huge, eight foot mass of fur, fang and claw dropped down between the Major and his three human assailants. Still swathed in its khaki storm coat, the slavering lupine nightmare, formerly a restrained stony faced SS bodyguard, instantaneously exploded into violent motion.

More through luck than any real athletic skill, Lieutenant Victoria managed to half dive; half fall out of the way of the flailing, rending claws of the werewolf, which split his two compatriots into wet, crimson ribbons and sent a shower of greasy intestine and pulped internal organs spraying grotesquely against the walls and floor.

Screaming, Victoria scrambled away from the scene of his fellows demise, scrabbling for his weapon as he did so, which he had, unfortunately, lost in the dust choked air and confusion. The berserk form of the wolf creature, reduced to a terrible, black silhouette in the dust, sprang not at him however, but straight _over_ him, out of the cloud produced by the falling rubble and slammed bodily into Walter.

The two fiends, the vampire and the werewolf, thrashed around for a brief period on the ground, each trying to gain the upper hand before the Captain managed to sink his wicked, scythe like teeth into the vampire's shoulder and hurl him, with a sharp twist of the head, clean _through_ the adjacent wall and into the room beyond. With a vicious howl of triumph, he sprang through the rent his hurtling assailant had created and out of sight.

Victoria had given up on finding his service revolver, but had managed to draw his reserve – a short, stub nosed Smith and Wesson .36. He looked around frantically for the Major, the primary target of the agencies' ambush, and primary target of his mission.

He had, unsurprisingly, disappeared.

'Shit, shit, shit, SHIT!' he groaned.

'A fucking WEREWOLF…fuck me! No one said anything about a fucking WEREWOLF. Just getting' used to the idea of vampires and then-'

He forced himself calm, breathing deeply and pushing himself up, he cocked the hammer on his little pistol, paused for a second to gather himself and wonder how the hell he had managed to get his stupid backside into this situation, and then swung through the gaping hole in the wall.

In the room beyond, which, like the hallway he had just emerged from, remained entirely open to the night sky in place of possessing a far wall, the two supernatural creatures tore at each other in close quarters combat.

The Werewolf had Walter against the left hand wall, next to an empty marble fireplace; his snapping jaws no more than a foot away from the Butler's face, only a handful of monofilament wires, spread tight across his foes hate twisted countenance separated Walter from a distinctly unpleasant second death.

Andrew, a little reluctantly, raised his weapon and put three rounds into the Wolf-man's broad back – an action which seemed to have precisely no affect whatsoever.

At the same moment however, Walter, unnatural musculature straining to breaking point, managed to force a knee between the two of them and, with a brutal roar that exposed a row of pointed, shark-like teeth, threw his opponent away from him, across the length of the room, and into the opposite fireplace – which shattered into a thousand pearl white fragments as the Werewolf crashed through it and into yet another decaying room beyond.

With barely a pause for the breath that he no longer needed, the vampire grabbed Andrew around the waist and took a running jump, out, through the open wall and down in a great arc, towards the overgrown gardens below.

* * *

The Major, meanwhile, was moving as quickly as his stout, diminutive legs could take him in the opposite direction. As ever, he was quite happy to allow his ferocious bodyguard to deal with an assailant of the supernatural variety. He was willing enough to recognise his own inadequacy against such an 'alien' creature.

Although how exactly the Hellsing family Butler had become a vampire, remained something of a puzzle. There had been reports enough of him still being active to be sure he had survived Blitz's much lamented ambush almost a decade ago – but there had been no word of _how_ he had done so exactly.

Perhaps that was one mystery solved, at least.

He turned the corner and pounded down the stairs into the entrance hall, almost bowling over the rest of the Einsatzcommando, which was, somewhat belatedly, coming to its commanding officer's rescue.

'Outside! Now!' he hollered at them, as he passed.

As one, they turned to follow. Sprinting out into the cold night air, the Major was greeted by further, more expansive, sounds of combat. The sharp 'crack' of rifles and pistols, interspersed with the rhythmic 'thudding' of assault rifles, and even the odd 'thump' of mortar fire.

It seems that the Butler and a deceitful native SS officer weren't the only elements in this particular ambush. It also seemed, however, that his troops had it under control. The Major quickly caught sight of his Doctor, hunched under cover behind a nearby APC next to the dishevelled form of Hermann Schmeisser.

'DOC!' he yelled over the all encompassing din, 'the Chimera, NOW!'.

(Yes, that's right people – Walter's a _real_ vampire in this timeline – because a) I figured it was his destiny (or something) to become the 'Angel of Death' and b) because vampire Walter is so badass I couldn't leave him out. Details will be explained in future instalments of this exciting epic of pointless violence and occultism (is that even a word?). Before anyone complains – or thinks about complaining – remember the _alternate_ part of this.

And, also, that Yog-Sothoth lives in my basement.

Have a nice day!)


	6. The House That Jack Built, Part Three

**Disclaimer:**

I know this should go at the start but, meh.

Obviously, I don't own the assorted craziness of the Helsling cast, or any characters in the preceding or proceeding chapters, except for the ones I made up myself.

And many thanks to Cheddar for continually reminding me to put this up! I got there in the end :D

* * *

Hellsing Manor Grounds, 1964

The huge steel container, fifteen feet long, and at least ten feet high, was slowly prised open by a pair of obviously apprehensive SS minders. The thick, hinged door which had formerly been of such reassurance to them ground slowly open to land with a flag-splintering crunch, forming a ramp for the Doc's 'Chimera' to descend from the vehicle in which it had arrived.

Several stray rounds sparked harmlessly off the side of the container, which looked more like a portable bank vault than military grade transportation.

The Major, with barely restrained glee, was peering around the edge of the APC he was sheltering behind, into the gloomy interior. The Doctor, next to him, looked almost as anxious as the two minders. With a muttered complaint about his doggedly non-combat status, he joined the Major in leaning precariously out of cover. Whilst his superior officer seemed generally unconcerned about his proximity to the odd round from the nearby combat, the doctor flinched visibly at every bullet which passed them or struck the little tank.

'You two!' he yelled over the clamour of battle, pointing towards the minders – 'get in there and pull it out!'.

The two men looked first at each other and then back at the Doctor, then finally into the darkness of the container. With a muted whimper, first one, and then the other disappeared into the huge box. They emerged a few seconds later, each of them pulling forcefully on a thick steel chain.

The Chimera itself was heralded, initially, by a wave of the same animalistic stench that had so swamped the _Nineveh_'s cargo hold, and then by a terrible, undulating bellow which echoed across the grounds of the manor. The Major could hear, as a result, the fire both from his own troops and from the partisans they were engaging slacken momentarily.

The creature, neglecting the ramp that had been lowered for it, emerged from its confinement with a single bound, straight out of the container. It landed with a heavy metallic CLANG, its iron square-toed boots shattering the already damaged flagstones into so much powder. The Chimera, hunched forward, simian-like then raised its huge head and took a single deep sniff of the air, and let out another roar, this one, a careful listener may have detected, with a distinctly _human_ edge about it.

Standing at least twelve feet at the shoulder, the Chimera was truly a monster in the most literal sense. The anticipated horror of its face was blanketed by an iron mask, flat around the face, but angled at forty five degrees down the sides. Three rectangular holes had been punched in the blank faceplate, one for each eye and another for its mouth, from which a cascade of thick, viscous drool emerged in long strands which splattered the voluminous beige hooded robe it wore almost to the ground. Underneath the robe, however, it also wore further gigantic iron plates, angled in the same fashion as the mask, a huge breastplate protected its considerable barrel of a chest and equally massive gauntlets and greaves ensconced its forearms, thighs and shins. Its hands were, again, clad entirely in cold, gunmetal grey iron, jointed, gloves.

Gloves already wet with the blood of whatever unfortunate animals the Doctor had been feeding it.

The SS minders, visibly terrified, started giving reluctant yanks on the twin chains which the Major now saw, in the clear moonlight, were attached to huge steel loops that were sunk _through the meat of its shoulders, and under its collar bones. _

'My God Doc, what…is…that…_thing_?' the Major asked, as he ducked back around the edge of the tank.

The Doctor, glad to join him, hurriedly began to explain. 'Like 'Myrmidon', Herr Major, 'Chimera' is a genetic fusion of two distinct species. In this case, it is that of 'Homo Sapien' and 'Troglodytes Gorilla'. It was, as I explained, a by-product of research on-'

'So…essentially…you crossed a _Human_ with a_ Gorilla_?' the Major quickly interdicted.

'Essentially, erm…yes, Herr Major – hence the name – 'Chimera'. It's something of a Juggernaut, you might say'.

The Major twisted back around the corner of the tank. The Doctor's ironclad genetic freak was swinging its considerable bulk backwards and forwards, splattering drool across the ground as it did so, as if searching for something.

A stray bullet struck its shoulder and sparked harmlessly away, deflected by inch thick armour plate.

The Doctor continued; 'The Chimera project was a series of a dozen test subjects, this being but one, the others I had terminated due to their particular mental…instability. This, I preserved due to its particular aptitude for-', abruptly the creature ceased its peculiar swaying and, with a awful bellow of demented rage, swung off to the right of the APC, and into the expansive, tangled gardens of the manor.

'Following the scent of the Nosferatu', he finished. 'It really is something of an inexplicable quality – perhaps deriving from certain chemical imbalances in its brain or-', this time the Major waved him into silence.

'Schmeisser' he snapped, turning to the characteristically unimpressed Sergeant who had yet to even lift his head for a glance at the lumbering colossus, 'cover that thing'.

'Aye Herr Major' he responded, with a sigh, before slipping silently into the gloom.

'You really are something of a demiurge, aren't you Doc?'

'Well', he replied with false modesty 'I would like to think so, at least'.

* * *

'What in the Christ was that?' Victoria managed to ask between gasps of air, in response to the awful roar which still echoed around the maze of neglected hedges, trees and flower beds.

'Nothing good, I'd imagine' Walter replied, and then proceeded to lengthen his stride still further. Andrew groaned and did the same, but with considerably more signs of exertion. A thunderous crash from ahead of them, however, accompanied by a volley of airborne masonry quickly brought the two of them skidding to an untimely halt. Blocking the twisting gravel path which they had been following through the gardens, having recently, and explosively, emerged from a century old wall of granite blocks, was fully twelve feet of hunched iron plate and swirling, mud splattered fabric.

Andrew, without a word or glance at his companion, took a conscious decision that discretion was most certainly the better part of valour in this particular instance, spun ninety degrees on his heel, and ran at full pelt across the adjoining lawn.

Walter, seeing Andrew turn and flee, looked back at the monstrosity that, trailing a pair of twenty foot long blood splattered chains from its preposterously broad shoulders, was lumbering towards him, picking up speed with each step and accompanied by a heavy, grinding clang every time one of its huge armoured boots struck the ground.

Hellsing's infamous Butler, perhaps drawing the same conclusions as the quickly disappearing mortal, also turned and ran.

As the two of them crossed the lawn in a dead sprint and turned onto another, wide, gravel avenue that ran between a series of thirty foot stone columns, the iron colossus took off in pursuit, churning the ground into a spectre of Ypres as it did so, and closing the gap with a speed which belied its abnormally massive bulk. As it reached the path, it sprang, ape-like across it and slammed into the flank of one of the columns, splintering it like a dry twig, it then leapt again, using the tumbling debris as a platform to reach another, more distant pillar which, in turn, crumbled under its terrible weight.

Beneath it, coaxing every last ounce of speed he could out of his terror weakened muscles, Andrew Victoria hurtled forward, screaming for all he was worth and mentally cursing Hugh Islands with every fibre of his being. A few paces behind him, level with the zigzagging aerial beast, Walter had clearly identified their pursuers target; which was unquestionably himself. With every bound between columns it twisted its blank iron face mask from left to right to keep continual track of the vampire, splattering drool haphazardly around as it did so.

Calmly assessing the situation, Walter decided that this was not a foe to be outrun and redoubled his speed, quickly overtaking the panic stricken human, and, with a fluidity and grace of movement beyond all but the most skilled of mortals, he swept in front of Victoria and sprang up onto the nearest pillar, then, moving as if he were still entirely horizontal, proceeded to run _up_ the column, heading the creature off before its next bound.

Below him, Andrew slowed, and looked on aghast, with mouth hanging half open and incredulous.

Walter, then, at the very same moment the iron brute sprang from its current disintegrating perch, leapt from the peak of his own column and out, into open space. As the two creatures passed each other at the zenith of their respective arcs, Walter released his wires in a spiralling swarm of titanium. Slicing across his foe in a half dozen places, he let out an exultant cry as he came to rest at the top of another pillar, which he shared with a particularly dynamic statue of some nameless Homeric hero. In exact contrast with the elegance of the Butler's landing, his foeman sheared through the centre of the pillar that he was aiming for, and crashed to the ground in a great, tangled heap, with a mass of broken stone following to descend on its prone form.

The Angel of Death, jubilant in his victory, twisted his head barely in time.

A thin line of blood was drawn across his cheek, as a single, huge .577 round narrowly passed him and struck the helmeted head of the nearby statue and shattered it into a fine, grey powder.

* * *

Almost a mile away, Hermann Schmeisser tutted to himself and shook his head, drew a fresh round from his soft deer skin belt, and reloaded.

* * *

Walter dropped into a crouch and prepared to join Andrew on the ground, when, with a grating of iron on stone, and an inhuman cry of wrath, the fallen monstrosity emerged from its rocky tomb, throwing off the ruins of the pillar which had so recently landed upon it. It quickly heaved a single piece of carven granite, which must have weighed nigh on a ton, into the air and _threw_ it right at the Butler, who, most fortunately for himself, was already dropping gracefully to the ground.

The granite block instead shattered the pillar from which he had just descended, and sent yet more rubble spiralling to the ground, which in turn, set Walter and the formerly lightly jogging Victoria back into headlong flight.

The beast, now thoroughly enraged, set off in pursuit along the ground, propelling itself on all fours, shouldering side a third column as it did so.

Andrew, now battling fatigue strained muscles and burning, overworked lungs, risked a glance behind him at the trailing juggernaut. The vampire's wires had slashed away much of its concealing robe, revealing the dirty grey armour, resting on quilted brown padding, beneath. Perfect, inch deep lines crisscrossed the iron chest, forearms and face plates – on closer inspection he could see that each gouge was faintly _glowing_ white hot from the friction of contact with Walter's wires.

'Any better ideas?' he panted to the Butler, who was now at his side. He didn't answer, but instead grabbed Victoria's arm and dragged him off the path and up a short flight of stone steps, into a tasteful, decorative Georgian summer house. With a flick of his wrist, Walter split the far wall open, and sprang through the gap, dragging Andrew after him.

Neither of them needed to look behind to see the trailing beast collide with the small house, barely slowing. Neither of them needed to see the slate roof shudder and then roll towards them like a wave whipped from a calm sea by a strong wind. Neither of them needed to see the rear wall, with its recently created gap, explode into a million fragments, as the two wildly flailing chains attached to the hurtling creature dragged the whole structure down as it passed.

Walter, letting go of Andrew, pivoted on his heel and paused, facing down the oncoming iron monstrosity, which, currently, seemed to have a lot more in common with an onrushing locomotive than with an onrushing man-thing. The vampire, however, remained utterly rooted to the spot, then, he calmly extended one arm; and snapped his fingers, as one might do to draw the attention of an unruly child.

This particular gesture, however, sent a pair of monofilament wires slicing from his finger tips, carefully targeted with superhuman dexterity, at the tiny gap between the creature's shoulder and chest armour.

In a fountain of black ichor which must have passed for the beast's vital fluids, a single gigantic arm spun away and impacted on the lawn with a distinct crash, digging a small crater in the earth as it did so.

The beast, however, seemed barely to notice the sudden loss of a limb, and continued its rolling advance, now on three as opposed to four appendages.

Walter cursed quietly under his breath and then resumed his flight, shoving Andrew ahead of him. 'The trees!' he yelled into Victoria's ear, whilst pointing off to his left, across the field they were now on 'head for the trees!' With a nod of acknowledgement Andrew changed direction and sprinted with all the haste he could muster into the grim shadows of the forest. He and Walter dodged easily between the trunks of hundreds of long dead oaks, quickly disappearing into the denser, less aged and more intact copse ahead.

Following behind them, however, the beast, for all its phenomenal strength and weight of iron armour, quickly began to fall behind as it impacted, one after the other, with the husks of countless dead trees. Again and again they shattered into so many splinters as it barrelled through them, but with each that fell, its headlong charge was retarded, until step by step, it ran out of momentum and was reduced to smashing the trunks aside with its one remaining, great sledgehammer of a fist. Bellowing in fury and thrashing dementedly, it lost both sight and scent of its quarry beneath the bowers of English oak.

But its quarry was not quite as lost as the Chimera's simple, yet horrifically mutated, brain reasoned him to be.

Monofilament wires, one by one, began to spring silently out of the surrounding trees. From the enveloping blackness, individual wires were looped around the monster from all directions, first its arm, then its neck, head, chest and legs until dozens of them stretched away from it and into the branches above and around it. The huge ironclad creature was, quite simply, ensnared, like a fly in the web of some fantastic forest dwelling arachnid.

Walter, with slow, deliberate motions stepped from the trees which had hidden him whilst he wove his web, detaching his wires from his gloves one by one until his foe was held fast, each line anchored firmly to the roots of an ancient oak.

The beast, massive heart beating frantically, twisted itself further into the titanium web as it caught sight of him, the surrounding trees groaning in protest as it swung all of its prodigious strength into stretching out its surviving arm – desperately stretching, straining, reaching out towards its tiny tormenter. The great iron fingers were eventually held fast, however, and juddered to a stop mere inches from the Butler. The wires had, like a straight jacket, tightened all the more as the beast struggled until eventually they had sheered through the thick plates of armour and into the softer, more yielding flesh encased within.

'Is it…dead?' Andrew asked, slowly stepping out from behind the protective bulk of a nearby tree.

Walter shrugged his shoulders 'do you want to go and look for a pulse?'

Victoria just looked at him, with blank, traumatised eyes.

'Let's go', the Butler grinned.

(Yes, my tongue is a little in my cheek with this update – the whole Gorilla/Man idea compared to the Cat/Boy from Hellsing proper. I was trying to go for a Brother Baston (from Priest) alike with the Chimera, but I couldn't find a picture to illustrate my point. Just take my word for it – he's awesome – even if my descriptive talents don't quite do him the justice I'd like and reflect the mental image I had of 'Chimera'. And LOL at anyone who thought it was going to be a lion/snake/goat thingy.)


	7. The House That Jack Built, Part Four

Epping Forest, Outside the Hellsing Manor Grounds, 1964

_Pray to God and row for the shore. _

_Pray to God and row for the shore. _

_Pray to God and row for the shore. _

_Pray to God…_

_His thoughts came__ back to him__ all at once, __although they were __disjointed__, incoherent__ and tangled, _tangled_, yes, tangled__ like him. He was stuck…in…something. _

_What?_

_Where was he?_

_A forest._

_He didn't remember a forest. Not like this. Forests at home didn't look like this. _

_Home._

_His name was __Pyotr __Sergeyev __Yushchenko__ and he was suddenly a_very _long __way from home__ indeed. __He struggled against his steel bonds, but it was futile, they were too tight, too strong – he could still smell…something, something fading away…he remembered that smell, not from home, but from before, before…in that hospital._

_What had they done to him? _

_That smell, it felt like it was worming its way into his brain. It _burnt_ him. What was it? God, what _was_ it? _

_And then there was a man. He was a German, __Pyotr__ could tell from the uniform. It was an old uniform though. Dirty and torn, ragged and ripped around the seams. __He was talking into a radio, although __Pytor__ couldn'__t understand __what he said. _

_Pytor__ tried to speak – but only managed to raise a weak half grunt, half gurgle. _

_The German raised his gun. _

_

* * *

_

Epping Forest, Outside the Hellsing Manor Grounds, 1964

The Doctor worried nervously on his index finger, he had managed to bite through his leather glove and into the flesh beneath, raising a few drops of blood which proceeded to run lazily down his chin and dribble onto the gravel below.

'I have only the most sincere apologies Herr Major, the Chimera-'

'Was genetic refuse, you said so yourself, neither monster nor man, but something worthless and in-between', the Major cut in. 'Worry if Myrmidon ends in the same manner, Doc' he turned and began to walk away from the tangled creature. He ran his finger along one of the multitude of taught, razor sharp wires that had entangled the creature. Each and every one of them was wet with thick, gelatinous, black blood.

He turned to the newly arrived Lieutenant 'Van Winkle', who currently poked with some curiosity at the pulped ruin of brain matter, skull and twisted iron plate which Schmeisser's elephant gun had made of the Chimera's head.

' Lieutenant' the Major snapped, which brought his subordinate's attention quickly from her anatomical examinations and to him, 'casualties?'

'Beyond the three that the butler killed, and this thing' she replied gesturing towards the suspended man-thing 'only a few wounded, and one dead'.

The Major nodded his satisfaction; the greater ambush had failed miserably, at least. 'How many SS-GB men survived?'

'A dozen, they took the worst of the fighting'.

'Have the rest shot, _pour encourager les __autres_. The whole damn organisation is most likely rotten to the very core anyway'.

'Yes Herr Major' she replied, with a brief salute, before turning on her heel and heading back through the woods towards the manor. He turned to Schmeisser, who, after finishing the wounded Chimera, had called the Major and the Doctor down into the clearing.

'Follow the Hellsing men, don't get close enough to fight, just watch, and track – tell me where they go'. Without a word and barely an acknowledgement, Millennium's famed 'Huntsman' melted into the undergrowth, leaving the two of them alone with the hulking corpse.

'What now, Herr Major?' the Doctor ventured quietly.

He shrugged in reply. 'I never put much faith in Heydrich anyway – he has neither imagination nor flair. Our plan will continue with or without _it_. With a little luck, and Schmeisser's celebrated skill, we may make our long awaited discovery yet, however'.

'What does Heydrich want it for, so badly, anyway?'

'Oh something terribly dull I'd imagine, he is forever looking over his shoulder at our charming Comrade Beria – I'd wager that has something to do with it. My idea is so much more _interesting_ anyway', he smiled. 'I have another task for you, anyway, my good Doctor', he continued as he too started to walk away from the rapidly decomposing carcass – another of its more unique features, he was sure.

As the two of them strode back towards the manor, he began to elaborate. 'I want you to go back to Wewelsburg, and inform Herr Heydrich of our current failure – and of the fact that I remain doggedly on the tail of our quarry and that he shall most certainly have his prize before the week is out etcetera, etcetera, etcetera' he waved his hand in the air dismissively to emphasise his point.

'Then, gather our forces that remain on the continent together, and lead them into the catacombs below the city. Disappear, and await further instructions. You must be careful Doc; however, when the Schultzstaffel storm breaks over the Reich, Heydrich will at least _suspect_ us as his betrayers'.

'Of course Herr Major, we shall await you below the Wewelsburg' the Doctor replied as the two of them crested the final rise between them and the manor. The Captain, returned to his more agreeable human form, awaited them by the doors. Along the wall next to him, which was now riddled with fresh bullet holes and splattered an equally fresh crimson, were a dozen slumped, motionless, black figures.

The Major waved Lieutenant 'Van Winkle' and her hastily assembled firing squad over. 'We have enough explosives in the convoy to deal with this unfortunate memorial don't we, Lieutenant?' he asked, pointing at the broken husk of a building looming over them.

'Yes, Herr Major' she responded quickly, and with a slight grin.

'See to it'.

* * *

The Village of Epping, 1964

From the hill, both Walter and Andrew could see the fires burning on the horizon. Moments before, the aged manor had disappeared in a cacophony of thunder, to be replaced with a column of grey dust and black smoke. Tongues of red flame danced around it, flickering and waving back and forth.

'It's about time', the Butler muttered grimly.

'What the hell was that old place, anyway?' Andrew asked, now a little recovered from their hectic flight.

'The old Hellsing headquarters, from before the invasion…before the war'.

'Oh. So, why are you glad to see it demolished?'

Walter shrugged in reply. 'It was from an older time, when the agency was different, when I was different – then we were guardians, protectors of this green and pleasant land' he mocked with a faux grand sweep of his hand 'now all we do is kill'.

'Kill Germans, kill quislings, kill vampires, kill monsters'.

Andrew grimaced, 'they seem to be doing a pretty good job of standing up for themselves'.

The Butler grinned, 'that they do'. The two of them stood in grim silence for a few moments, watching the smoke.

'I think we fucked that up' Victoria sighed. 'Sir Islands is gonna have our bollocks'.

'I think we did'.

'Where to now then, oh great Angel of Death?'

Walter shrugged again, as if the answer were obvious. 'North. As fast as we can. The Millennium Major was only ever a target of opportunity for the council anyway'.

'And this…Millennium…they're like us…but, German?'

'Worse than us'.

'And we just pissed them off?'

'You just pissed them off. They've already been trying to kill me for two decades. Once they even succeeded' Walter said, with a wry smile.

'Great' Andrew moaned, before sitting down heavily on the grass.

'We need to find a vehicle before dawn; your SS 'qualifications' should get us past any surviving checkpoints', he continued. 'The entire country is in chaos, the whole resistance movement is making a fight of it – they know that this could be their last chance'.

'Glasgow then?' Andrew groaned.

'Glasgow is where they'll make a stand, it is where the agency is based, and it is where the Germans will strike first and hardest. I have no intention of missing our own little Gotterdammerung'. He then proceeded to yank Andrew to his feet by his dust streaked collar and half drag the exhausted young man back down the small hillock and towards the miserable, grey dwellings of Epping village.


	8. Son of Seth

The Bavarian Forest, Greater Germania, 1964

The first of a multitude of lean, hard shadows detached themselves from the impenetrable gloom of the vast forest, stepping out onto the wide, flat clearing of well trampled earth. Above them, the sky was slate grey and broiling into storm clouds.

'To thee we ask aloud, _who art thou_?', boomed a single powerful voice, the speaker invisible – still shielded by the protective darkness of the tree line.

'WE ARE THE ISCARIOTS! THE LEGION OF JUDE ISCARIOT!' came the thunderous return from the steadily advancing row of men and women, their faces grim and set.

'Now I ask of thee, Iscariots, _what is it thou hast clutched in thy right hand_?'

'WE'RE CLUTCHING THE DAGGER, AND THE POISONS!'

'Then, Iscariots, I ask of thee _what doth thou grasp firmly in thy left hand_?'

'WE'RE GRAPSING THIRTY PIECES OF SILVER; WE'RE GRASPING A HALTER MADE OF STRAW!'

The first rank of the advancing phalanx opened fire, there eclectic assortment of weaponry belching fire and gun smoke into the crisp Bavarian air.

'If that is the case, _what art thou Iscariot_?' came the solitary voice from the rear.

'WE ARE APOSTLES, YET NOT APOSTLES, BELIEVERS YET NOT BELIEVERS, DISCIPLES YET NOT DISCIPLES!'

The German guards, scattered haphazardly around wooden and earth barricades, despite their obvious degree of preparation for some form of attack, fell en masse to the rolling waves of gunfire. Hundreds of rounds shredding crates, sandbags and flesh with equal impunity.

'And what, Iscariot' came the final question, '_do you hold in your hearts_?'

'VENGANCE' came the final reply, as, with a great roar, the tattered mass of partisans surged forward in an enormous human wave, which rushed over the thinly spread defenders, skewering them with bayonets, hacking at them with brutal trench knives, bludgeoning them with wooden stocks.

'Aye', the solitary questioning figure spoke softly to himself as he emerged from the forest far behind the attack. A great mountain of a man, almost seven feet in height, swathed in a dirty grey cassock which had clearly seen better days, his hard but attractive face framed by iron grey and straw blond stubble, yet horribly marred by three deep horizontal scars that ran almost from cheek to cheek.

'Vengeance'.

* * *

Paladin Alexander Anderson picked haphazardly amongst the heaped German corpses. Flicking aside a helmet with one foot and then turning over the body of its former owner with the same boot, he crouched down to look over the deceased's uniform markings. Despite the mottled brown and green camouflage pattern, it was clearly of SS manufacture – the Totenkophf and Sig Runes plainly visible on either side of the collar.

His source had been correct, thus far.

'Take weapons, combat gear and supplies; leave the rest for the crows' he instructed his dispersing troops, as he rose smoothly back to his feet. 'Put someone on guard as well' he told his lurking second, a short balding Frenchman who called himself 'Marechal' despite the fact that he had obviously never been such a thing.

Anderson then turned towards the low, concrete, bunker ahead of him, which the SS men had evidently been protecting. It was devoid of gun ports, signals equipment and even simple viewing windows. It almost looked as if it were designed to keep something _in_ rather than something _out_.

He slipped a pair of bayonets from his sleeve and into his right hand.

The bunker was plainly stamped with a large, black Reich eagle and, above the door, in small neatly stencilled gothic scrollwork was a single, terrible, word:

Millennium.

His source had been correct again, it would seem.

* * *

The rectangle of light from the outer hatch faded quickly as Anderson descended, alone, into the bunker. The air was heavy and humid, and the bare concrete corridor which he was passing cautiously through was lit by a mere handful of caged electric lights. He came to a half open steel door and prodded it further with the tip of one bayonet.

The room beyond stank of stale blood and decay.

A half dozen desiccated corpses were slumped across wire framed cot-beds. Two were clad in white coats, like those worn by doctors or scientists, the other four in black SS uniforms.

The guards outside the bunker had perhaps been the lucky ones, he reflected before continuing on. More corpses greeted him as he reached a cargo elevator at the end of the passageway, set behind heavy steel blast doors that strained even his prodigious strength in moving. He kicked the rotting bodies aside; the curiously hot air seemed to have accelerated the decay, although even so, he thought they had not been dead for more than a few days.

He hammered the 'descend' button with the butt of a bayonet and held onto the guard rail as the platform began to grind slowly downwards. He had to admit to himself, he had not hoped to find the bunker populated by corpses alone. Or, perhaps, he had just simply wished to find some small portion of Millennium healthy enough for him to kill.

His grip tightened on his bayonets, until his knuckles were white and the metal groaned in protest.

The Russian had told him that this was an active Millennium facility. The bodies that littered the place un-nerved him slightly, perhaps some nightmare they were toying with had escaped and massacred them all. Perhaps he would have to satisfy himself by destroying that, instead. It had been a long, hard march across hostile territory to reach this God forsaken hole, so he hoped to find _something_ worth the effort, at least.

The elevator juddered to a stop on the one and only sub-level, and he stepped out, to be greeted by yet more corpses. These mangled and broken, an arm here, a leg there. Anderson took a pair of loose Bible pages from his cassock and nailed them to the wall just above the elevator door. No ungodly creature would escape him that way, at least.

He pressed on, grinding putrefying flesh beneath his heels.

This was his first, real, chance to take the fight to Millennium – he felt his temper fray as it looked more and more likely that that chance had been taken, stolen even – by another. When the Russian had come to them, in the mountains of France, from nowhere it seemed, ticking and grinding like some obscene clockwork toy he, or more accurately _it_, had given Anderson the location of this facility, exposed he had called it. Important, yet vulnerable. With the growing turmoil in the Greater Reich, they had seized the opportunity to slip into Germany proper.

The Russian had said that his countrymen did not have the strength to strike so deep, so far from Asia. And so he had come to Iscariot. He had called them that, Iscariot, although they were not. They were mere partisans, from a score of nations; Anderson was the only Holy Man amongst them. He had been the only one to survive, when Millennium came with the man who called himself Emperor and burnt them from Rome so long ago.

He ground his teeth together; his rage was what drove him today. His rage and his faith. It was a potent cocktail, he thought.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

Lex Talionis.

He reached a heavy, black iron door. The metal was scored with a host of markings that made his head swim, and his vision blur. He nailed another page to it, and passed through.

'Welcome, son of Seth'.

Anderson froze, more bayonets slipping into his fists, one protruding between each finger. The voice came from the shadows. From between the stacks of books that stretched back into the gloom. He stepped out, from the doorway, and into what appeared to be, simply, a library.

'I killed them for you, son of Seth, are you pleased?'

'I would rather have killed them maeself' he muttered back, cautiously advancing between the shelves. He could see a desk, ahead, at a break in the books, which seemed to stretch endlessly back into dark obscurity.

The voice split into a rasping laugh.

'I'm glad ye find it so amusing'.

'Oh, I do, son of Seth, I do'.

Anderson emerged into the light, which was given off by an antediluvian gas lamp, to behold a small, bespeckled woman, with wild grey hair and dust stained, antiquated clothing.

'I see the spawn of the Destroyer Wolf has left his mark upon you, son of Seth'.

Anderson reached up to touch the three horizontal scars, almost subconsciously, and rubbed them gently. 'Aye, he did, and I'll lay my mark upon him before my time is out'.

That rasping laugh again.

'Fenris-Ur is protective of his children, son of Seth'.

'To the ninth rung with the wolf man and his devils' he spat, ramming one bayonet into the desk and levelling the other at her throat. She raised her hands in mock surrender.

'Enough great Paladin' she mocked. 'This daughter of Abel has seen enough of her blood spilt!'

Anderson narrowed his eyes. 'Enough theology, woman, Abel had no children, and you are already taxing my patience'.

She grinned back at him. 'If you say so, son of Seth'.

'You look barely strong enough to walk, woman, never mind kill – who are you and why did they keep you here?'

'I have told you who I am, son of Seth – a mere daughter of Abel, and as for the killing' she snapped her fingers 'I have friends in dark places'.

Anderson's gaze never left hers, his bayonet still at her throat, but he could see the shambling forms of dead men, emerging with jerky steps from between the stacks of books, holding back meagre inches from the weak sphere of gas light. They were ghouls, as a vampire might command, creatures that Iscariot had once hunted, creatures which Anderson continued to hunt.

And yet, this old woman was no vampire – that much at least, he knew.

'They are no threat to you son of Seth. Our time grows short, I have had my fill of this banter – you have work to do'.

'Is that so?'

'Tell me, were you sent here – by a man of clockwork and steam? A Russian man?'

'Aye', Anderson nodded slowly, suspiciously.

'It is good that Wormwood has not forgotten me, lost down here, then' she sighed, with more than a hint of melancholy.

'Wormwood?' he asked. She ignored him and continued, as if he had not spoken at all.

'I have worked, here, for so long – when they took me from the great grass sea I thought I would die – but instead I toiled for them, first, for that horrid chicken farmer then that Major – the fat one, with the dead eyes'. She looked up at Anderson; he was grinding his teeth, audibly. 'You know him?'

'Aye, I know him; he took mae children, he took mae life, he took mae friends', he replied, slowly lowering his bayonet.

'You are _old_ son of Seth, older than you look. But your hatred is good. Excellent, even', she smiled. 'Wormwood has sent you here as a soldier of his Apocalypse. _You_' she emphasised the point by jabbing him in the chest 'must stop that Major'. She was beginning to speak faster, as if some invisible hour glass were running low.

'He is searching for a key of all souls, son of Seth, that fat little man, and he wishes to free an angel from its prison, _an angel called Desolation_. Take this-' she said, splaying her fingers and laying them flat on a thin volume next to her. 'It will explain what I do not have the time to'.

And then Anderson saw. Her skin was crumbling, slowly at first, but then noticeably faster. A wave of decay seemed to run from her finger tips upwards, her flesh melting into a fine grey dust, the lighting rot spreading to ancient muscle tissue beneath, until her entire arm was reduced to a mass of powder that slipped from the table and onto the floor, even as her torso and neck began to dissolve in a similar fashion.

'Abel did have children, son of Seth, we are his flock…his dead'.

'My God' Anderson whispered hoarsely 'ye're a wraith, a…a…_ghost_'.

'I once rode with wolves on a sea of grass at the side of a man named Temujin, We were the lands and the bones of the hills, We were the winter and the spring – but they took me from my home and I _died_ down here, and they _bound_ me to this place'. She pointed at the door with one horribly decaying hand, which fell into pieces and splintered into yet more fine dust as it struck the floor. 'You broke the wards they placed on my cage, with your bible and your bayonet, son of Seth'.

The decay had reached her gullet, and was now running up her throat, and into her mouth, revealing age blackened teeth. 'It is good that my brother remembered me and sent his clockwork man to you – we did not call him wormwood for his fine temperament, you know. Fight that Major, son of Seth, or don't – I no longer care-', she was cut off as the decay ran into her mouth like water, and her skull toppled from her withered shoulders to strike from the ground in a shower of grey powder and bone splinters.

'Holy Mary' Anderson managed to choke out, whilst covering his face to prevent the dust from flowing into his mouth and nostrils. He reached out and took the book from under the crumbled remains of her hand. The cover was ancient, bound in cracked leather, and on it was written a single line;

_The Gospel of Matthias_.

* * *

Paladin Alexander Anderson sat on a rock, overlooking the thin file of Iscariot troops as they trekked back through the forest, slowly reading. 

The damn thing was written in an awkward, cramped, spidery cursive. It looked like the old woman…or…whatever she was, had transcribed it. He was getting there, however, even if somewhat slowly.

Marechal came to stand next to him.

'Where to now, Father?' he asked.

Anderson grunted and closed the book.

'The Wewelsburg'.

(LOL, at your faces people. That was a whole heap of esoteric nonsense wasn't it? I think I should just put down my crack pipe and WALK AWAY. Don't worry though; it does fit with the rest of my story! And I've not forgotten about the resistance and vampire Walter and Schmessier and Seres' dad and everyone.)


	9. Red Orchestra, Part One

Rugby, Warwickshire, 1964

Andrew guided his commandeered Land Rover easily through grim, deserted evening streets. He could see SS-GB guard posts on almost every corner, with clusters of black uniformed, hard faced Englishmen manning every one. Although he was loath to acknowledge them as such. He had hated the men he had worked with, mercilessly. Despite his personal misgivings at the time, he had volunteered to join the government's most feared repressive apparatus three years ago – and had even been commissioned as an officer. That seemed so long ago, now, when he had worked solely for the council as an undercover agent.

But now…now, he was with Hellsing.

And damn, but was that ever a career move he was regretting.

'Try not to look so nervous', Walter suggested blandly from the passenger seat.

'I'm trying'.

'Try harder'.

'That's easy for you to say Walter – if they catch me they'll string me up from the nearest fucking lamp post'.

'And they'll give me a hug, I suppose?'

Andrew snorted, 'I don't think there'd be much point in hanging you', he replied, his eyes slipping almost subconsciously from the road to the livid scar that ran the circumference of the Butler's ivory white neck, now revealed, after the removal of his coat.

Walter's face took on a tight, pained, expression. 'Old debts, Andrew…old debts'.

The young man returned his attention to the road.

'There's another road block, up ahead' he said nodding towards the wooden barrier spanning the length of the street. 'It should be the last one, then, we'll be onto the Autobahn'. Andrew drew the vehicle up slowly before the barricade and waved jovially to the SS guard, who stepped up to the passenger side window.

'Papers' he snapped at them.

'No papers' Walter said, turning his head to look at the lone sentinel, slamming his hand down over the man's helmeted head as he did so, covering his eyes with a thumb and finger. Walter bent his will against the guard's tired mind, and it broke like dry reeds. The guard stepped back, shaking off the vampire's cold hand.

'O-of course, no…no papers just go on through' he muttered, absently, raising the barrier as he did so.

Andrew put his foot down and sent the Land Rover roaring out of the winding lanes of the town and onto Autobahn UK-6. The huge six-lane wide stretch of asphalt, stretching off towards the horizon and the last rays of sun light sinking beneath the hills, was utterly deserted. Which was certainly an unusual sight, at any time of the day or night.

'I hate it when you do that', Andrew mumbled, as they began the long journey northwards.

'Would you rather I killed them?'

'Well, yes, actually'.

Walter just shrugged in reply. 'A trail of corpses would be too easy to follow'.

'And a trail of slack jawed zombies is harder?'

He shrugged again.

'They're following us right now, anyway. I just don't want it to be too easy for them'.

'What!?!' Andrew gaped, aghast all of a sudden, 'how do you know that…and why in hell are we taking them right to the agencies doorstep then?'

'Hellsing…' the Butler paused, as if searching for the correct words 'has a weapon. A weapon that they were, once, too afraid to use. A weapon that may have saved lives. Saved my life, even'.

He paused again, and looked out of the passenger window, at the streaking fields and small industrial enclaves.

'Perhaps they were right, those old men, it was never really finished – in 1942, it was close…but not close enough for them. They feared it, and Millennium destroyed them for it. But now' he continued, turning to look at Andrew, 'now it's ready. And _still_ they fear it, _still_ they wait and wonder and _hesitate_'.

He grinned that horrid, wolfish grin of his, lips pealing back and revealing rows of pointed fangs.

'But, now, I'm going to bring Millennium to Hellsing again, right back to those same old men, as soon as I heard they had returned to England – I knew, I just knew that _now_ was the time. I'm going to make them wake him up, this time, they'll have no choice'.

Andrew continued to gape, his mouth moving with half formed words.

'And the Germans will _drown_ in their own blood and filth if it's a half of what Island's claims'.

'Well…erm, I can't disagree about the blood and the shit, but, I don't know Walter – leading those mad bastards to Glasgow…I mean, did you _see_ that fucking Wolf-thing? It fucking had you Walter-'

'The werewolf is nothing compared to what Hellsing have been holding in their bunkers for the last sixty years – _nothing_'.

Andrew continued to look more than a little sceptical.

'Island's seems like he knows what he's doing Walter – maybe he keeps, erm, whatever it is locked up for a good reason?'

Walter shook his head firmly, and then returned to staring mutely out of the windshield.

'So…what is this thing then – a man – yeah, a vampire? What?'

'You'd never believe me if I told you'.

'I'm sorry; perhaps you didn't see the twelve foot iron monkey that tried to eat me last night? Try me Walter, you'd be surprised'.

The Butler pulled himself out his seat with a sigh and stepped into the back of the Land Rover. Andrew twisted to look over his shoulder. 'So?' he asked again.

'You wouldn't believe me'

'_Try me_'.

'Count Dracula'.

Andrew burst out laughing, 'Yeah, now I got that there's _real_ vampires Walter but fucking _Dracula_ – now that's pushing it a bit. They got Varney and Count Orlock in the basement as well?'

Walter had lain down between piles of rusty equipment, and crossed one leg over the other. He just looked back at Andrew with those red eyes of his, utterly and entirely serious.

'Oh fuck me running' the young man breathed incredulously, before turning back to the road.

'Just keep driving Andrew' the Butler snapped, before closing his eyes.

* * *

_He had lost count. _

_There were holes in his chest, arms, legs - blood everywhere. _

_He'd lost count of how many times he had been shot. _

_They had known about the ambush, obviously, a__nd a__ counter-ambush had been sprung on the __Hellsing__ agents. Most were dead, a few had got away. Walter had bought them time, and taken his pound of flesh from Millennium doing so. Most __of the Germans were dead as a result__, scattered along the road or hang__ing __limply from burnt out vehicles. _

_'Perhaps I should just leave you for the crows little Butler' she said, as she hefted him effortlessly under one arm and dragged him towards the cliff edge. _

_'But' she continued as she dropped him down on grass soon sticky and drenched in his own blood 'after giving me this' she said, jabbing at the ragged, empty socket where her eye had so recently sat 'I think you know you pissed me off'. _

_He grinned up at her with red stained teeth. He was __lung__ shot, and his breath came in ragged wet gasps. _

_'Go fuck yourself, you dyke whore' he coughed up at her. _

_She kicked him sharply in the stomach, which set him retching and coughing up yet more blood, complete with spongy particles of lung tissue. The hulking woman standing over him snapped something taught between her hands. _

_Walter squinted through the blood in his eyes._

_His wires, a half dozen of them._

_She had been too fast, too strong. Once, they had met before, during the final days of military resistance to the German invasion. She had a few tricks back then, illusions, hallucinations. But now, now she was different. Faster, stronger – she had waited until he was injured and exhausted from the fight – then struck._

_He had been no match for her. __But a__t least he gave her one thing to remember him by, though, he reflected grimly, as he looked up into her callous, twisted face, soaked in blood from the weeping hole where her left eye had been. _

_Vaguely, as if from far away, he felt her wrapping the wires around his neck, and then a series of yanks, as she secured them to a ruined APC sitting skewed half-on, half-off of the road. __Then her boot on his back, as he looked out, at the setting sun hanging low over the English Channel, from the cliff top. _

_'I hear they sometimes call you __'__the hangman__'__ little Butler, and that you once said that you would lynch a German from every tree in Britain'. She paused and leaned over him, so that he could see her__ flat, ugly __blood smeared face__. 'I __guess this is a bi__t fucking ironic then'._

_She shoved her foot out with a triumphant grunt, and sent him careering wildly downwards towards the rough and jagged rocks below. _

_Halfway down, he struck a particularly prominent spur of rock and twisted wildly in the air, before crashing into a protruding branch, the sharp crack of which __joined the sickening crunch of his own fracturing bones. He jerked to a halt with a __nauseating__ jolt, the wires tight around his neck and digging__ inexorably__ through skin and muscle, slowly opening his throat in a growing trickle of blood. He hung there for an indeterminable period, minuets, seconds he did not and could not know – but it felt as though hours were passing with every laboured heartbeat. Walter closed his eyes, the weak rays of the sun warming his face __f__or a final time._

_And then he felt a thin, weak __dribble__ across his face. He opened a single eye, the other now swollen closed, his skull beaten into fragments in the fall. _

_It was blood._

_A thin trickle but, surprisingly, he registered faintly through a haze of pain, it was not _his _blood. It flowed gently from the battle site above, running slowly and unerringly down the titanium wires dripping onto his face. He took a deep breath._

_His last breath._

_Then, slowly, he__ reached out with tongue, towards a single droplet perched just __below his nose. _

_From far away an observer would have seen the tiny black smudge of a man, hanging from a cliff, not unlike a suicide, with the setting sun on his face. Then, with a grim finality, the wires holding him suspended _breaking_ one by one, and the man plunging violently to earth hundreds of feet below. _

_He awoke, on the rocks, with sea water licking at his feet. His clothes were torn and rippe__d, but, remarkably, he remained__ whole. Arms, legs, head. And not a _single_ cut or bruise on him._

_He lent sideways and wretched blood onto the ground, the last of his__ own__ blood, excreted like so much waste matter from his dead body, to be replaced by the blood of the living, fuel fo__r the furnace of hatred in his gut. _

_But this time, it was different. He had been here, before, a hundred times – how could he forget? But this time…and then he saw. __High in the sky, slate grey turning black, a single _burning, red star.

_'I offer you this one warning',__ dimly he perceived __a man sitting next to him, on a rock, one leg propped high and the other curled under him. He was talking to Walter. The Butler raised his head and tried to speak, there should be no man here,__ there was never a man here,__ he wanted to say – and yet the words would not come, his mouth merely moved, slack and vacant. _

_'__Unleashing the B__east will bring terror__ and desolation__ to these lands, to all lands, from the __great __grey ocean in the west to t__he great grass sea in the east. Do not wake him, little vampire, he is a monster forged by man, a thing _that should not be. _This one warning I give to you__your hatred and__ your bitterness will see__ the end of us all – Walter__ C.__Dornez__'. _

_Walter forced his mouth to open, forced words to come, it was torturous – as if he struggled against the __certainty of memory, there was no man here, and yet__ there was._

_'No' he croaked, weakly. _

_The stranger__ sighed and bowed his head gently, 'I thought as much__'. He looked up, straight into Walter's eyes._

_'Then wake up, Angel of Death, and _fight_'._

* * *

Walter was woken by the frantic slapping of Andrew's hand on his foot.

'Wake up you bastard!' he yelled.

The Butler snapped upright in an instant, looking out of the windshield.

Andrew groaned and pulled out his service revolver, 'this shit is following us, Walter, why did I join this. Fucking. Stupid. Club!' he whined, banging his free hand on the steering wheel to emphasise each word.

'Christ' Walter muttered, clambering over the front seat, and out of the door.

They had come to a halt at an Autobahn check point; the signs told him that they were somewhere south of Stoke-On-Trent, in the midlands. A cluster of corrugated iron buildings, set around a steel barrier that spanned the width of the Autobahn-off ramp, surrounded by waist high concrete barricades; they were not uncommon, and it was not the presence of such a place which had so perturbed Andrew.

It was the corpses.

A dozen or more, cast haphazardly around. But even this was not so unusual, especially with the running battles the resistance was fighting with the government and German forces of late so common, and growing more so the further north one moved.

It was the _way_ that they had died that was so disturbing.

From cuts, sword and dagger strokes, Walter saw on closer inspection. Many had lost limbs or heads from what appeared to be singular, powerful, strikes. One man had even been cut open from crown to groin, his innards spilled brutally across the asphalt in a single long streak. Viscera coated the walls of the little buildings, and he saw that there were rents in the metal where blades had made contact.

Walter crouched down, rubbing two fingers into the blood, about to raise it to his lips. Then, with his hand half way to his mouth, he froze, before calmly flicking his wires from his gloves and letting them fall to the ground in a fine mesh.

He could hear grinding, as if of gears, and a faint clicking, as if of _clockwork_, approaching steadily from between the blood splattered buildings.

It was a man, he saw, as it emerged.

A clockwork man.


	10. Red Orchestra, Part Two

Autobahn Checkpoint, A-UK 6, South of Stoke-On-Trent

It stood at about the same height as an average sized human male, around six feet; it was well built, with solid shoulders but an almost un-naturally thin waist. Walter couldn't discern exact details in relation to its physique; however, as the coat it wore obscured most of the details. Tight around the chest, but splayed out below the waist – it resembled an old nineteenth century frock coat, but with a military twist and greater length. Coloured field grey, and with a double line of gold buttons to match the minimal braiding on the breast and shoulders.

The face was, however, entirely visible. It had skin but, evidently, not its own. A covering of old brown leather, sewn together from various individual patches, enclosed a perfectly shaped skull that, Walter thought, from the odd glints where it poked through the 'flesh', was made from burnished brass. It even had eyes, which were an odd, cold blue. As it approached in slow, smooth, efficient steps, he saw that they were glass, and the leather eye lids were stitched permanently open. Its creator had clearly not been economical with details, as not only did it have eyes, but also lips, a nose and even hair – a long pony tail of platinum blond swept back from its forehead.

In what appeared to be softer, suppler leather gloves it carried a basket hilted Scottish claymore and a long, vicious dirk.

It advanced, slowly, out from between the small iron buildings, and into the puddle of light which shone out from a half dozen spots around the two of them. Walter moved lithely to his feet, and slipped around to the left, circling warily. The clockwork man matched his steps identically, putting one foot next to the other in exact mimicry of its opponent, moving to the right.

_'__Вы__не__п ройдете __Полынь__д авала__команд у__на__провед ение__ее__'_, it rasped at Walter.

Its voice was like dragging steel across concrete and was almost painfully artificial. He could see that, as it spoke, neither its jaw nor throat moved. The harsh, alien sounds were clearly Russian, yet they seemed to originate from a brass mesh set some way into the mouth, some sort of synthetic voice box, almost.

With a sharp twitch of his wrist Walter flicked a single monofilament wire out at it, only to see the automaton neatly sidestep it with a sudden jerk of movement. He sent another, and another, once, twice, thrice and each time it dodged effortlessly with the same lightning fast flashes of motion, whether he sent the wire low or high, it jinked aside, pulling its upper body almost horizontal at one point to allow a single line to flick over its head, before it snapped upright once more. After each jink it returned to its eerie mechanical mimicry of Walter, when he continued to his left, it moved right, if he switched the direction of his circle to his right, it switched to its left, he lunged it backpedalled, he retreated it advanced.

_'Я __имею__в ас__англи чанин__'_.

With the same artificial suddenness, conspicuously lacking those telltale movements that accompany any sudden shift in direction in an organic creature, it lunged at Walter. He brought his wires up in a whirling metal shield instantaneously, a shield that could cut bullets out of the air and shred flesh, and yet, almost unbelievably, with sudden jinks and twists it stepped _through_ the metal screen and slammed the dirk, up to the hilt, into Walter's exposed belly.

The Butler staggered backwards, as the clockwork automaton twisted the dagger in his gut to break the suction with his dead flesh, and withdrew it in a single smooth motion. Walter went down on one knee, leaking vital fluids across the asphalt. The automaton took a single step closer and brought up its sword to deliver a second blow.

Still stunned at the abruptness of his unexpected outmatching, Walter managed to twist narrowly aside to avoid the descending claymore, so that the blade sank not through the top of his skull, but deep into his shoulder instead, juddering to a stop in his chest cavity as he lashed out with one hand to clutch his foes wrist in an iron grip. He could feel brass bones, beneath the grey coat and the leather skin, and even the slow turn of tiny gears and the tug of artificial steel tendons as the clockwork simulacra exerted pressure on its blade, driving it gradually deeper into the beleaguered Butler.

He spat blood up into the automaton's face, but it ignored the sticky red mess that coated its unblinking glass eyes. In the blue of the iris, Walter could see further miniscule cogs rotating lazily.

Then, with grim finality, he saw it pull back the dirk for a third, almost certainly fatal, stroke.

A bullet struck from the side of it head, in a fine spatter of sparks.

It twisted its head with a sudden jerk, almost seventy degrees, far further than any human could have done so, to look at Andrew, who had emerged from the Land Rover with revolver outstretched.

'Shit'.

He opened fire again, sending three more rounds hurtling towards the clockwork man. Its dirk, pulled back to strike at Walter already, flicked out in three sudden spirals and deflected each projectile harmlessly, for it at least, not so for Andrew, who went down in a heap, apparently caught by his own deflected bullets.

The brief distraction gave Walter the moment he needed, however, and scrabbling around on the ground behind him with his one free hand, limp wires still attached, he latched onto the helmet of one of the deceased guards and swung it like a club at his foes head. He struck it three times; with each blow he pushed himself upwards, until he was back on his feet and level with the lethal contraption. His strikes had not, however, served to do any more than dislodge a great swathe of leather skin from the left side of its face, which peeled away like the flesh of a corpse to reveal the lustrous bronze skull beneath. He jammed his foot into its chest, and pushed backwards, managing to free himself from his cruel impalement whilst maintaining a firm grip on the automaton's sword hand. Then, as it dropped its dirk and snapped a hand up to grip Walter's other wrist, currently engaged in beating his foe across his brass head with the discarded helmet, Walter snapped his own head forward in a vicious head butt, knocking the clockwork man back a pace and a half, but breaking his own nose in the process.

With a grunt, he tore away from the simulacra, leaving strips of bloody fabric from his shirt and a significant amount of skin in its left hand, where it had been clutching his wrist.

Walter whipped his wires back into the air and sent them whirling round his head once again, pushing the clockwork man back a few more, crucial, steps. It resumed its jinking motions soon enough, however, and he knew that it would move in for the kill, wires or no, soon enough.

It was still mimicking his footwork, left and right, backwards and forwards.

And then it struck him.

The automaton was _reading_ his actions, using those slight signals of motion that he had been unable to find in it, against him. It was following his movements, predicting his attacks, his defences, everything, it was _calculating_ patterns – and adjusting to suit.

Walter flexed his wounded left hand, minutely, as if about to send a wire out to the clockwork man's right. But, then, dipping his right shoulder and lashing out with a wire from his other hand. His foe moved an instant too slowly, and the monofilament line whipped across his arm, splitting the coat open and sending a ragged scrap of leather skin and grey fabric twisting away on the breeze.

Whatever alloy the clockwork man's bones were made of, Walter reflected, it was certainly not brass. He could see where his wires had left long thin scars along the burnished bronze ulna and radius, whilst it should have severed the forearm neatly. He moved his right hand with a similar miniscule motion as he had with his left previously, and then sent out a pair of wires from his opposite hand.

The clockwork man stepped neatly aside.

_'__Как__тол ько__стыд __на__мне __Дважд ы__стыд __на__вас__'_.

Walter took the mechanical grating from between its immobile jaws as some imperfect replication of laughter.

The automaton dropped suddenly into a predators crouch, like some terrible stalking beast, and sprang forwards, low to the ground, claymore trailing behind it from one hand and striking sparks in a long line from the asphalt. Once more it swept effortlessly between the individual lines of the wire shield and closed the gap between the two combatants in an instant. Rather than swing with its sword, however, it raised its empty left hand and jabbed it towards the Butler.

Halfway through the strike, though, its empty hand suddenly snapped into motion – all five the leather fingers _ripping_ off and spinning in all directions, leaving a ragged hole in the end of the glove – from which flicked a single ten inch blade.

It had swept gracefully across Walter's throat before he had even a hope of moving.

A heavy square toed boot then made connection with the Butler's chest, and he was thrown backwards, crashing through a wooden door, and then a thin metal table as he came to a halt, in a bloody heap, inside one of the guard buildings.

H e looked up at the ceiling with dimming vision; blood was trickling freely from the perfectly horizontal wound in his neck. He clasped his good hand to it, realising with a slowly dawning horror that the gash was stubbornly refusing to close. Whilst the deeper rents in his body, at his shoulder and stomach, were almost healed already, this smaller wound refused to mend.

Silver.

The blade must have been silver, probably blessed by a holy man or the like.

He had underestimated his foe. That much he was certain of. He had tricked it, once, and tried to do the same again. That had been a mistake – he had been thinking of it too much like a machine, like some walking clockwork abacus, to be outfoxed by the living brain. But he was wrong; its mocking laugh at his assumptions was proof enough of that. Somewhere, under the brass fixtures, beneath the infinite gears, cogs and tiny motors – was a real man, and that brass skull contained the complete consciousness of a _living human_.

Walter dragged himself painfully to his feet, his assailant was not the type to gloat in its victory, however, and it was already advancing from the darkness outside, into the fluorescent brightness of the hut. It slammed another boot into Walter's stomach, sending him bouncing off the corrugated iron wall.

The Butler struggled to remain standing, propping himself up, by a small window.

The automaton stopped.

'_You should have listened to him, vampire, free the beast and we will all die – your __Hellsing__ has been wise to keep him confined'. _

Walter just grinned back at him, through broken teeth.

The clockwork man drew back his silver hand-knife.

There was a dull 'thunk' behind him, of something metal bouncing from the concrete floor, and Walter just kept on grinning. Right before he twisted, and, with every ounce of strength he could muster, one hand still clutched tightly to his bleeding throat, he dived _through the window_.

The automaton whirled, coat splaying out in a circle around him, to see Andrew Victoria hobbling away in the other direction.

Three small, black cylinders lay on the ground in front of him.

Grenades.

_'__дурачки!__' _it screamed after them, a high, mechanical whine.

An instant later the whole flimsy construct erupted outwards in a flash of white hot fire, retina searing light and scalding heat.

* * *

Andrew propped himself up against the side of the Land Rover, clutching the bullet hole in his shoulder. He had been lucky, he knew that. Very lucky.

That was twice in two nights.

Walter came staggering over to him, swaying violently from left to right, trailing a smattering of crimson behind him. He tried to speak, but gave up after only managing to produce a series of wet gurgles, and began waving frantically at the vehicle.

The two of them scrambled in, and Andrew gunned the engine, crashing through the wooden barrier, past the inferno that had formerly been the guard post, and onto the road beyond. Walter fumbled desperately under his jacket as they drove, and managed to draw out a half a dozen fist sized blood packets. Three had been burst in the fighting, but he savagely tore through the others with his teeth, draining them dry and then licking the plastic for any stray drops. He continued coughed wildly and drew his hand away from his throat, to reveal a very slowly closing gash.

He nodded his thanks at the other Hellsing agent.

'Yuh' Andrew grunted, his shoulder wound was not particularly serious, but it was painful.

'Incendiary grenades – not bad, eh?'

Walter nodded his assent again.

'Full of surprises, me'. He changed the subject abruptly. 'So that was Millennium then, like with the Gorilla and the Wolfman?'

'Yes' Walter lied, still weakly gurgling through blood in his throat. He knew that _thing_ was nothing to do with Millennium. It was not their style, for a start. Too…mechanical. And then there was what it said, of course, and the man in his dream. Some other, third faction, he thought, working against him, against them. The Russian government, maybe. Did they have their own Millennium or Hellsing clone? He had no idea.

They were scared of the power Hellsing held, though, it was obvious.

Just another enemy.

Just another debt to be paid.

'You see how dangerous they are now?' he continued. 'Do you see why we need _every_ weapon at our disposal?'

Andrew just nodded, pale and gaunt.

* * *

Hermann Schmeisser watched silently from a nearby copse of bracken as the Land Rover sped away.

That had certainly been an interesting encounter, he smiled to himself. Even from this distance; his sharp eyes had easily picked out the details of the confrontation. The Hellsing Butler was no slouch in a fight, he knew, but that thing had had him for certain when they disappeared into the little building.

It had been easy work, tracking them this far, perhaps they would be more cautious in the future. He had followed partisans before, in a hundred places; he knew how they thought, so it was straightforward. He had been one, once, after all.

When men had come to his Tyrol, with their eagles and their muskets.

But that had been a long time ago.

He was not entirely surprised a few moments later, when a figure jerked its way out of the rapidly cooling inferno, beating the odd lick of flame out on his coat and, apparently, his skin. He was charred and black, lumps of what appeared to flesh joining swathes of burnt cloth on the ground as he flexed his limbs, and then began moving away from the fire, for all the world apparently unconcerned.

Schmeisser reached for his short ranged radio, the Major would be eager for news, he was sure.


	11. Without God

Wewelsburg City, Westphallia 1964

'Don't you have something to do, Lieutenant?' the Doctor sighed. 'Something about a file and a certain Herr Kaltenbrunner, perhaps?'

Zorin Blitz shrugged her wide, excessively muscled shoulders.

'Probably'.

The Doctor turned on her suddenly, putting down his clipboard and pen.

'Then I suggest you _step to __it_, Lieutenant'.

She shrugged again, turned, and strolled from the cold steel and sterile instruments of the Doctor's laboratory and out into the grim stone corridor beyond.

He would never understand the logic behind the Major's choice of operatives – Blitz was a perfect example. Insubordinate, cocky, a risk to security – a mere Totenkopfverbande before her recruitment to Millennium. Yes, her talents were considerable – but he had seen greater squandered before. He sighed again and picked up his pen, it was not his place to question the Major however, he firmly reminded himself.

Herr Heydrich had blustered and raged at him when he had arrived, of course. Where was the Major? Where was his prize? When would he return? The Doctor had grovelled his way through the old man's fury, never really in any danger. He was far too _valuable _to be the Reichsfuhrer's sacrificial lamb, at this point, at least.

Not that any of his multitude of merits would save his skin if Herr Heydrich discovered what he had been doing for the last few hours.

The remaining Millennium Einsatzcommando, already mustered at the Wewelsburg on the orders of the Reichsfuhrer – in preparation for some obtuse, heavy handed task in the coming 'Glorious Revolution' – no doubt, were slowly filtering into the caverns and tunnels below the city. In the dark, fetid subterranean labyrinth they could disappear effortlessly for the few days necessary, he was certain. The Major had delegated a crucial element of his plan to the Doctor, after all, and he was determined not to fail at this penultimate hurdle.

He turned and glided away from his desk, between bare steel tables and empty cupboards. Everything of value had been hurriedly packed and transported along with the troops. His notes, his files – even a few of the live test subjects. Some had, regrettably, been too large or volatile for efficient removal on such short notice, though.

He was struck with a particular pang of disappointment as he strode through the triangle formed by three huge bubbling cylindrical vats by the far door, stepping vigilantly over the pipes and tubes connecting them to each other and to the steel floor as he did so. Each was filled to the brim with a thick, viscous mass of steaming genetic matter, each a swirling pool of cellular matter – each an incubation chamber for one of his latest projects.

He placed his hand on the warm glass of the far left chamber, with some affection, and peered into the murk. He saw the contents of the container, half formed and embryonic, twitch with life.

He smiled gently to himself.

He really was _good_.

Let Mengele and Rascher toy with eugenics and fumble around like children in the dark with questions of race and creation, his was the _real_ science.

With the vast resources of the Reich behind him, he had been unstoppable; there had been no limit to his creative genius. His artificial Midians, designed, researched and produced in less than two decades – his artificial ghouls in less than five years, his genetic fusions – well, _almost_ complete.

And with that thought he left his laboratory, and his newest creations, to their collective fate, with the silent hope that whatever thugs Heydrich sent down here to find him in a few days, when the Reichsfuhrer learnt the full extent of his pet monster's betrayal, would not prove too violently destructive, in that special pointless manner that SS men so excel at.

Closing, and then bolting, the door behind him he strode down a flight of steel steps, and onto the second level of Millennium's Wewelsburg bunker complex. Here, the tools of the Major's great work lay waiting.

Ahead of him, escorted by no less than six of his prized artificial's sat a seven foot black iron coffin. Across the front, inscribed in faint silver scroll work, a single line:

_Sine __Deo_

Without God.

The Doctor thought it appropriate.

If the fortress they sat in was Himmler's Magnum Opus, then this was his.

Myrmidon.

The perfect warrior.

'Move it out gentlemen' he snapped at the guards 'carefully now, disturb it at your own peril'. The six men looked at each uneasily and then slowly lifted the great sarcophagus onto their shoulders, before beginning the descent towards the third level. Turning on his heel as the coffin was carried ponderously out of sight, the Doctor then proceeded to disappear into the budding gloom of an adjacent corridor.

His footsteps struck heavily against the cold steel floor as he made his way through the deserted subterranean complex, the odd electric light flickering as he passed. The power had been shut down when he arrived, but it appeared that the reserve generators still struggled somewhat futilely to illuminate the lower levels.

After a little time wandering in the growing chill of the facility he drew to a halt at the end of an expansive corridor, to be confronted by a further gaggle of Millennium troops, sitting on a host of crates, before a titanic iron door – like those found only on the most significant of bank vaults.

Which of course, after a fashion, was what this was.

Millennium's vault.

'You are dismissed' he told the unit's Untersturmfuhrer bluntly. The half a dozen men saluted smartly and slipped quietly passed him, fading ethereally into the darkness after only a bare few paces. The door was already ajar, so the Doctor needed to exert little effort to open it wide enough to pass. Inside, rows of bare metal shelves stretched into away into obscurity, like some ancient, abandoned skeletal army. Everything of significance had been cleared from the vault by the troops before they had evacuated to the lower levels, boxed and escorted into the catacombs, a hundred 'priceless' artefacts from every corner of the globe.

Well, almost everything.

The final item remaining in the vault had been inherited, like so many of Millennium's more esoteric possessions, from Herr Himmler. He had been quite the collector, the Doctor reflected idly as he strode between the empty shelves, passing from the illumination of one weak electric spotlight to another.

The iron bones of Baba Yaga, the Lia Fáil, the Corporal of Bolsena, the ruins of the Tarnhelm, the hilt of Zulfiquar, a fragment of Durindana, a link of Gleipnir, the list could go on and on. Himmler had thought these splinters of myth had held real power. He had devoted himself, and an entire bureau of SS researchers, to unearthing them and countless others like them – at vast expense – for his own private collection. Of course, due research had been performed, and results ranging from nothing to slightly less than nothing had soon filled the crates and crates of files that accompanied each of the items.

As far as the Doctor was concerned, they were worthless trinkets.

Nevertheless, the Major had ordered them preserved, and so the Doctor had preserved them.

For all of his scoffing at Himmler's leftovers, however, there was one which he had never quite been able to reconcile with his views on the majority. It was that, unsurprisingly, which the Major had commanded he remove and carry personally to safety.

The Doctor reached his destination, an obscure shelf on the far right of the vault. A metre long stainless steel case, the only remaining item, waited for him. He dialled the four combination locks, checked the contents and automatically suppressed the wave of nausea that hit him, as it did each time he mustered the courage to snatch a glimpse at the broken weapon.

He closed the box, and dropped it to his side as he walked away.

Myrmidon, the relic and the Millennium Einstatzcommando. Each prepared and waiting at the Wewelsburg.

Three pieces of the Major's plan in place.

Just one more remaining.

* * *

Wewelsburg City, Westphallia, 1964

The slaves were revolting.

Horror stories crammed the television and the radio, a thousand hungry vultures in the form of men circled Silesia.

All the carnival of the Reich's media in one place.

Quite beneficially, for him at least the Reichsfuhrer-SS thought, the majority of the broadcast atrocities were actually 'real', as opposed to mere phantasms conjured from the mind of Obergruppenfuhrer Nebe. The Slavic labour force was a boiling cauldron, it appeared, and he had removed the lid.

Not that it mattered now.

They were poorly armed, and their pathetic 'Resistance Committees', 'People's Collectives' and 'Partisan Brigades' were so riddled with SS and Gestapo agents that he effectively moved the little Communist fools around like pawns on a chess board anyway. His great Knights, Panzermeyer and Steiner, were moving to crush them already. Millions of Waffen-SS troops, his army, his legions, were advancing to annihilate the rebellion and then, on, on towards Welthauptstadt Germania and the false Fuhrer!

He could feel destiny looming close at hand, he was always Adolf's chosen son, he knew that, but Bormann had moved to quickly, and been to strong by far. But now! Now it was his turn, the speed and the strength were with him and the NDSAP would fall like wheat before the reaper's scythe!

From here, from his fortress city, his victory would be orchestrated. He stood in the single most advanced command and control centre in the world, constructed to be the beating heart of the Reich in the second great race war which hung permanently on the edge of cataclysmic manifestation to the east; he now turned it against those very men it had been designed to protect.

He stood on the highest of three concentric gantries that stretched around the massive octagonal chamber; each walkway was lined with a dizzying array of instruments and staffed by hundreds of black uniformed SS men and women. Below him, on the ground, a further collection of equipment had been arranged around a deep octagonal concrete pit, its sides lined with narrow stone benches like those found in the most ancient of amphitheatres, at its centre a massive war-table, festooned with charts, maps and the like and surrounded by dozens of SS staff officers.

Up here, however, on the highest tier, Heydrich could see out of a score of armoured viewing ports set into a low concrete bunker at the apex of the reinforced underground complex he currently inhabited.

The three hundred and sixty degree view out across his city that they provided only heightened his implacably growing sense of self-assurance.

Himmler's great geometric pattern may very well have simply been the product of one old man's esoteric fantasies but, simultaneously, it formed an almost impenetrable web of interlocking defences.

Whilst the bulk of the city, with its residential blocks, SS ministries, factories and research centres squatted behind the incomparably vast bulk of the Wewelsburg curtain wall, which bristled with hundreds of fifteen inch guns and dozens of surface to air and surface to surface missile systems, the majority of the cities defences stretched far, far into the distance, onto the open 'killing fields' beyond.

Pillboxes, tunnels, concrete trenches, thousands upon thousands of Dragon's Teeth.

An Aryan Maginot line for a new decade, a massive phalanx of men and fortifications, kilometres deep.

And yet, with all this at his finger tips, that single thrice damned Sturmbannfuhrer ground on his nerves.

Again, he had failed, _again_. Again the Hellsing's creature had slipped through his fat fingers. Again, he had sent his excuses. Heydrich needed Millennium's strength in the coming days, so he had let it pass _again_, sending that nightmare of a 'Doctor' back to his laboratories with nought but harsh language as reprimand.

When all of this was over, however, there would be a reckoning between him and his presumptuous little subordinate. Of _that_ he was certain of at least.

Someone cleared their throat next to him, drawing the Reichsfuhrer back to current events and away from the curiously hypnotic qualities of the city lights.

'What is it, Kempf?'

'If I may, sir, it's time to send word to Herr Reiter – 'Aurvandil' will need to move into position for the attack tomorrow night'.

'Of course, send him his orders' Heydrich replied, still somewhat distracted by the bizarre, almost non-Euclian geometry below him. Kempf nodded curtly, and then turned and left.

'Oh, and Kempf', Reinhard called after him, 'tell Reiter to restrain himself, for God's sake – I don't want him wading in there, blood up to his waist, twenty four hours early'.

'Of course, Herr Reichsfuhrer'.


	12. Resistance, Part One

Glasgow, Scotland, 1964

Andrew sprang lithely over a shattered column of granite, and sprinted down the steps of the Stirling Library. A salvo of 7.92mm rounds thudded into the granite over his head as he rejoined Walter, who was already crouching behind a stone plinth in the square, which supported the remnants of a cast bronze statue of Arthur Wellesley.

'I've never been to Scotland before', Andrew panted as the Hellsing Butler peered around the edge of the statue. He was rewarded with another salvo from the FAL semi-automatics of the government troops on the other side of Argyle Street.

'I don't think I'll be coming back'.

A shell struck the library, towards the rear, but the great double doors at the front of the historic townhouse seemed to take a good measure of the impact, exploding outwards in a hail of splinters and masonry fragments.

'It's not as friendly as people told me it was'.

Another shell impacted across the street, blowing out the side of the house that the soldiers were firing from, whilst a third and fourth struck the frozen ground, ricocheted back into the air, and then detonated in a storm of white hot steel shrapnel, which proceeded to rip most of the statue from its centuries old resting place and deposit it several metres away.

'The shelling puts me of, not a place for the family, you know?'

'Shut up Andrew, or you'll never get the chance to make a bloody family, when I move – you follow, understood?'

The young Hellsing agent nodded, and wiped snow from his face.

The weather was certainly not helping them at the moment. A light dusting had started to fall when they abandoned the Land Rover at the outer ring of Government siege lines, on the edge of the city, along with his uniform and most anything else that could have been useful, save his side arm and a greatcoat each. Then, as they had pushed further through the shattered, twisting ruin of Glasgow, it had really started to come down.

On the upside, the snow made it significantly harder for the khaki clad figures of the Government regulars to see them, but, by the same token, it also made moving in the open risky, as both sides jumped at the hazy shadows it made of people and opened fire wildly. Several times, on crossing into the central zone, they had come under attack from resistance men and women.

'Now'

Walter sprang to his feet with a conspicuous grace, and slipped out across the white moonscape of the Library Plaza, heading north, towards George Square and the Glasgow City Chambers. Hot on his heels, Andrew flinched instinctively as a trio of fighter bombers streaked overhead, the multiple sonic booms of the rapidly decelerating aircraft momentarily overshadowed by a thunderous roar and blinding flash a few streets over, which heralded the arrival of yet more canisters of Napalm and cluster sub munitions.

The 'Royal Air Force', or the whipped German puppets that had the audacity to call themselves such these days, was certainly giving Glasgow a pounding, Andrew thought. Add to that the unrelenting hammering of the Army's 105mm howitzers, and the ruin that the city had become over the last week was entirely understandable.

The position he had held within SS-GB, up until recently, had given him information on many of the early details of the Battle for Glasgow. It had been captured by resistance forces, along with several other Scottish towns, at the beginning of the resistance surge – and Government forces, quite sensibly, had moved swiftly northwards to crush such a unified insurrection. Continual raiding, and the expansive guerrilla operations launched throughout England, however, had conspired to bring the offensive, with all of its armour, artillery and over whelming air power, to a grinding halt in the suburbs of Scotland's second city. Heads were sure to have been rolling in the M.O.D during the last week.

Perhaps literally, if his former colleagues had had anything to do with it.

Since then, however, the Army seemed to have made better progress – and fighting had reached the centre of the city in only a few short days. When he and Walter had slipped through Government lines, he had seen the extent to which the armed forces had been mobilized, almost certainly as a result of that earlier, humiliating, failure. Not only were there several divisions of crack regular troops deployed to the battle, complete with artillery and air support, but there was also a growing number of Black Shirt Militia Brigades, the paramilitary wing of the British National Socialist Party, mustering in earnest.

Glasgow was at the heart of a tempest, and things were only going to get worse.

They crested a small rise, and passed between the blackened skeletons of a pair of office buildings, one on either side of the deserted street they were moving along. From the top of the slight hill, he could see the bones of the city.

A charred and ruined spectre of Dis.

He peered through the murk as they ran, Walter effortlessly hurdling a ruined car which blocked the road. Fires were burning as far as he could see, despite the snow.

The sharp snap of a single round from a bolt action rifle brought them both to a quick halt.

'FLASH!' Andrew snapped out.

'THUNDER!' came the correct coded reply from the thick white murk.

'Who the fuck aer yoo?', a different voice this time.

'We're with the resistance' Andrew yelled back, raising his arms.

'Yer nearly got yer limey arses shot off'

'We're agents from England' Andrew continued, 'to see the council'.

'Aye, is that so?'

'I know him, it's alright, stand down boys' came a third, female, voice.

A cluster of figures emerged from the gloom, and quickly pulled the two Hellsing men out of the street and into the cover of a battle scarred post office, the windows had been put out and lined with sandbags, the doorway barricaded with a heavy oak table. When Andrew caught sight of the short, blond woman by the nearest barricade he grinned, despite himself. Her typically long blond hair had been cut short, and the blue eyes that matched his own were almost hidden under the brim of an antique tin helmet.

'Kelly' he nodded.

'Andrew' she nodded back.

'Not the cleverest thing to do there, Mr. Secret Agent'.

'We're in a rush, gotta see the council, its important'.

He grinned again, wider this time, and embraced the little resistance fighter, crushing her in a bear hug. She laughed and slapped his back gently with her M-14.

'Careful there, I might take you for a fascist and shoot you'.

'I resigned my commission'.

She laughed again and pulled away.

'Good to hear you're not on duty with the enemy anymore Herr Victoria'.

He noted the three pieces of gold fabric, in the shape of diamonds, sown haphazardly to her collar.

'They made you a Major?'

'Damn right, this is my unit now'.

'Good for you _Kitten_', he said, his grin returning. She slapped him on the arm in response.

'Call me that once more and I _will_ shoot you Andrew'. He laughed and raised his hands again.

'Come on' Walter cut in, interrupted their good natured banter, 'we have to find Sir Islands'.

Kelly turned away from her old friend 'I'm due back to the tunnels in a few minutes anyway' she told his companion 'I'll take both of you'.

* * *

George Square, Glasgow, 1964

'So who's your grim partner here, Andrew?' Kelly asked, as the three of them slipped between the various statues, fountains and lesser ornamentations that filled the square before the squat, ruined bulk of the infamous Glasgow Town Hall.

'Walter', Andrew answered, waving his hand in the direction of his fellow agent, who was threading his way eagerly through the mist and snow, ahead of them.

'Just "Walter"?'

'Walter C. Dornez'.

'Sounds like a Butler'.

'Probably because he is a Butler'.

She laughed, 'All sorts with the resistance these days I suppose, look at me – I used to be a teacher – you used to be a Detective Constable, what a pair we make'.

'Yeah' he agreed 'all sorts'. _Just not the sorts you think_.

The impact of a salvo of shells nearby bought all three of them to a halt, ducking for cover. After a few seconds they got back to their feet and continued across the square.

'I've never met him before though'.

'No, you wouldn't have done…my job description changed again pretty recently'.

'Oh?' she queried. 'So secret agent wasn't good enough? No fringe benefits? Bad sick pay? So who're you working for now then? Der Raumfahrers-SS?'

He smiled tightly, 'I work for Hugh Islands. Remember how you used to moan about how he sat on the council but did nothing? Well, take it from me Kelly, he does plenty, they just don't tell us regular folks about it'.

Before she could answer, the three of them reached the ruined entranceway to the Glasgow City Chambers, the great Victorian monument had taken more than one hit from heavy artillery and the like, huge craters marred the marble and granite façade, and the windows were uniformly shattered.

'FLASH!' Kelly yelled out, although the snipers and machine gunners posted on the upper floors must long ago have sighted and recognized her.

'THUNDER!' came the reply, again, from within the building.

On closer inspection, Andrew could clearly see almost a score of rifles, of all shapes and sizes, levelled at them from the entrance hall alone. A single, gaunt figure stepped from behind one of the pillars and waved to them.

'Who're your friends Major?'

'Don't you recognise me Bram?' Andrew shouted back.

'I'll be damned' the man in the entrance way laughed. As they ascended the steps, each was able to pick out details of the other. Andrew noted the rough, haggard appearance of another of his old resistance friends. His hair was turning a grey that he would almost certainly refer to as 'distinguished' and a long, ragged scar cut across his right cheek.

'Roadside bomb went off too early, last year, it was' he said in reply to Andrew's questioning glance 'it was my own fault'.

He shrugged.

'Shit happens'.

'We need a less demanding job, Bram'.

'Tell that to Reinhard Heydrich'.

'I'll tell you what' Andrew said 'if I ever meet him, I'll tell him you said that'.

'You do that'.

Andrew rolled his eyes at Kelly. Abraham 'Bram' Davies, Captain, formerly of Three Commando Brigade, never did quite take his jokes particularly well.

Walter took the opportunity to butt in. 'We need to get to the council'.

The ex-commando looked the Hellsing Butler up and down, 'and who might you be, boy?'

Walter responded by pulling a small square of laminated white paper out of pocket, emblazoned with a vertical broadsword and a pair of crossed keys.

'Good enough for me' the ex-commando muttered, before turning and leading them down a marble staircase at the rear of the entrance hall. There was a young, almost incredibly so, resistance fighter sitting on the stairs. He looked no more than sixteen. His bolt action rifle was held in the crook of his arm, and he had a small but powerful radio pressed to his ear.

'Have ye heard this Col'nel?' the young man asked as they passed his voice thick with Highland brogue, yet also breaking, a boy on the cusp of manhood.

'Heard what?' Davies sighed as he passed the young man, heading into the cellars.

'Here' he said, turning the little radio up.

_'… Oppressed Comrades in Europe, in Africa, in the Middle East, subjugated masses of t__he world, awake and__ arise__! The Voice of Omsk __brings y__ou word of the great __leap forward that the brilliant scientists of the Union of Socialist Soviet Republi__cs have__ accomplished this very __day. In the face of Fascist Imperialism__ and eternally dogged__ by Capitalist fickleness__, our great scientists today detonated the first Soviet _Hydrogen Bomb_…'_

'Christ'. Davies whispered. The four of them stopping briefly to listen.

_'…Comrade Beria sends words of hope to the oppressed people of the world; he has seen your struggle in Germany, he has seen your struggle in England, but rest assured Comrades,__ friends, __the U.S.S.R. will not sit idly __by like the American cowards_you shall not struggle alone!_ Workers of the world unite, you have nothing to lose but your chains_'

'Bloody hell'. Andrew said.

'I can't make my mind up whether this is a good thing, or a bad thing', Kelly answered, after a significant pause.

'Does thes mean the Russians are coming?' the young man with the radio asked.

'Christ if I know' Davies replied.

Someone outside was shouting, they could all hear. Faint, but getting louder. Someone else had heard the same broadcast, evidently.

'DER RUS KOMMIT, DEUTSCHLANDERS, DER RUS!!!'

The four of them on the stairs turned to look at each other, still unsure whether to take on expressions of hope or despair.

Walter, on the other hand, was already moving through the cellars, to the armoured hatch which led down towards the sprawling sub-basements.

* * *

Over Northern England, 1964

The Major hummed gently to himself as he sat on one of the numerous plush couches in the first class section of the ReichAir flight he had recently requisitioned. It was remarkable what the sight of the good Captain, and an SS rune could do, he mused.

A radio played away in the background.

Lieutenant 'Van Winkle' and two of her men sat listening to it, rapt. Further forward, at the front of the aircraft, the Captain sat looking out of a small circular window, watching the rain drum from one gunmetal grey wing.

With the Doctor safely dispatched back to the Wewelsburg, the Major had had little to do over the past few days, since his confrontation with Hellsing's most stubbornly animate agent that was. Except, of course, too wait for Herr Schmeisser's regular updates.

And they had been _most_ interesting.

When the last report had come in, he had loaded his entire unit onto the closest commercial aircraft, and set off for Glasgow, which now appeared to be the heart of this little British fracas.

'Have you heard this Herr Major?'

'What would that be, Lieutenant?'

She responded by turning the radio up, allowing him to hear the thick, heavily accented English of the announcer.

'The Voice of Omsk' he tisked at her, 'dear dear, Lieutenant, next you'll be listening to Mr Churchill-' the briskly repeated information the broadcast relayed, however, cut his gentle chiding off.

'A Hydrogen Bomb?' he asked no one in particular, quietly, as if in awe, before allowing his soft, portly features to split into a terrifying grin.

'I can hear Fenris-Ur _howling_ Captain, can't you? Can you feel it as well? The Fimbulwinter?' the Major laughed towards the solitary, stoic figure at the fore of the aircraft.

'I can hear the Destroyer Wolf, my soldiers, calling us to _war_'.

(Yes, that IS Seres' mother. Yay for them. They might even live to have a Seres! Or not.

Oh, and Raumfahrer-SS is a guess at what 'Nazi Astronaut' might have been. The Nazi's put a man on the moon a few years earlier than the U.S. in this timeline. Go them.)


	13. Resistance, Part Two

Below the Glasgow City Chambers, Glasgow, 1964

Walter and Andrew led the group, with Kelly and Bram dawdling behind, Kelly was wrangling after a pair of captured L7 machine guns for her command, but the veteran Colonel was having none of it.

The two Hellsing agents, however, had more pressing matters to discuss.

'You are with me on this, correct, Andrew?' Walter asked as they passed through the first of a series of long, dank, tunnels which dripped with condensation and were lined with a particularly esoteric black mould of foul odour.

'So, one more time here Walter, you're telling me, right – that Hellsing has spent the last sixty years turning _the_ one and only _Count f__ucking Dracula_ into the supernatural equivalent of an Atom Bomb, and then they locked him up down here, because they're too scared to let him out?'

'Even though they have bound him to their will, utterly and totally' the butler reminded him.

'Shit Walter. A lot of people are gonna die here when Millennium catches up with us – _if_ they catch up with us, I mean they might not, so why take the risk, Sir Islands must have locked him up for a reason, right?'

'They will. And a lot of people are going to die here anyway, this is a war, remember Andrew, and that thing can save some – maybe all, of those who would otherwise perish'.

The two of them fell silent as they passed through one of the several barricades spread across the winding passage at key choke points, nodding and showing Walter's laminated identification symbol to each of the sentries as they swept by, and then continued with their conversation once out of hearing range.

'Maybe we should have headed off – I don't know, towards Edinburgh, or Aberdeen maybe-'

'But we didn't, we came here'.

'Yeah, we did' Andrew muttered with a sigh and a look back in Kelly's direction. She was still arguing with the colonel, and with some passion, despite Bram's obvious impassivity to her reasoning.

Walter looked back as well.

'She'd die here, you know, they all will. Even without Millennium' he shook his head and turned back. 'You know, when this all started, the Government sent an envoy to Glasgow asking the resistance to lay down their arms. And you know what the council told him?'

Andrew shrugged in reply.

'Come and get them'.

Andrew grinned, but his levity soon faltered when he saw Walter's point.

'Just like the Spartans told the Persian King, at Thermopylae'.

'And all the men and women of the resistance will be just as dead as those brave three hundred, in the end'.

The young Hellsing agent took a deep breath.

'Fine. I made my choice when I came here with you, I suppose'.

Walter grinned.

'All you have to do is back up my story when I talk to Islands, it'll mostly be the truth anyway'.

* * *

The four of them soon passed out of the bewildering network of tunnels, and into a large artificial cavern. The walls were sheer concrete, and a series of deep channels had been carved into the floor. It had obviously been a junction of sorts, when the passages had been used for sewage from the city above – decades ago.

Several powerful electric flood lamps illuminated the whole area, and a huge barrier, constructed from a host of scrap metal and stone, had been erected on the far side of the largest of the old waterways, about two thirds of the way across the great open space.

They walked across thin wooden planks which spanned the empty channels at regular intervals, each was manned by a sentry, who would retract them with a sharp tug at the first sign of danger, creating a series of impromptu moats ahead of the ramshackle curtain wall.

Andrew had only ever been here once before, and it was obvious that the council had taken a series of even more extreme defensive measures in recent days. The complexity of the resistance's Glaswegian base had amazed him then, and it continued to do so now. To have the whole thing, however grim and dirty it seemed, constructed had been a miracle of organisation and influence.

It was never surprising, however, that Glasgow had been chosen as the seat of British resistance.

The city assembly, from the police chief to the mayor, had been in the council's pocket for years. Britain had never been the most 'orderly' of the European Union states, Scotland had never been the most 'orderly' of its constituent nations, and Glasgow had certainly never bent its knee to the Quisling Conservative government in London any more than it absolutely had to.

They scrambled up the gentle slope of the 'wall' and dropped down on the other side, before ducking through another heavy steel hatch, and passing into a long narrow, utterly featureless, corridor. Before Andrew and Walter could pass any further, Kelly made her excuses and left with Bram, heading off to the left towards the converted armoury and small barracks, on an even danker sub-level below them.

'No excuses, now Andrew' Walter mumbled, as the two Hellsing agents continued down the corridor 'remember what I said'.

They passed into a slightly wider rectangular space at the end of the passage, where a final pair of guards checked their identification – and then opened a third steel hatch, allowing them access into the silent inner sanctum of British resistance.

* * *

The Council of Hereward.

Named for the infamous English folk hero, Hereward the Wake, sometimes called Hereward the Outlaw, Hereward the Exile or even Hereward the Cold, who fought the Norman tyranny of William the Conqueror during that most despised King's notorious 'Harrowing of the Northlands'.

Made up of a dozen prominent men and women, from England, Scotland, Wales and beyond, each dedicated in their own way to the toppling of the regime, to the freedom of these British Isles, to the restoration of the rightful government – so long exiled to Canada – and to the return of the true monarch, Her Royal Highness, Queen Elizabeth II.

Andrew thought the name somewhat appropriate.

All twelve of them were here, today, in this, the nerve centre of the movement. Huddled in the dark, damp, modest little chamber they directed a score of communications experts and poured over heaps of maps and charts - directing the battle above them.

In the ethereal green light of the banks of equipment arranged around the room, Andrew began to pick out faces he could recognise.

Lieutenant-Colonel Robert 'Paddy' Mayne, the indomitable Special Forces legend.

Lieutenant-Colonel 'Fighting' Jack Churchill, who broke out of Sachenhausen Concentration Camp, and then _walked_ home.

Sir William Slim, renowned architect of the British resistance, wanted by the Nazi's for 'crimes against the Reich, the Fuhrer and the people of Great Britain and Ireland', a title he wore with as much pride as any decoration, and which he had earned by orchestrating the operation which killed the treacherous Lloyd George, first 'Prime Minister' of Hitler's Britain.

Sir Shelby M. Penwood, Admiral, although one conspicuously lacking in ships.

Zvi Zamir, who was probably the last Jew east of Greenland and west of the Urals.

Admiral of the Fleet Lord Louis Mountbatten, somewhat dashing, eternally stubborn, occasionally competent but forever charismatic. He sat at the head of the council, although Slim, Mayne and Churchill made the real military decisions.

There were others, some that he had never met before, others that he had. But, in the far corner, half shrouded in shadow, silently watching Slim and Penwood scribbling arrows for some unknowable purpose on a map of the city; stood Sir Hugh Islands.

People often called him 'The Iron Knight' or 'Sir Irons', for short (and when he wasn't within earshot), for his grim countenance and inflexible, unrelenting hatred for all things Germanic. The current head of the Royal Order of Protestant Knights, through appointment rather than inheritance, after the murder of the previous incumbent, Sir Arthur Hellsing.

He left his place behind the table and waved them over, meeting his agents next to the door, away from the clustered council members and assorted staff. He was sharply dressed in a maroon suit, complete with waistcoat and tie, which marked him out from his more practically dressed peers. His hair had once been a light brown, but was now heading towards a thick grey indicative of stress.

Walter and Andrew saluted smartly before beginning, Islands was a stickler for discipline.

'I'm sorry sir, I regret to inform you that the mission was something of a failure' the Butler began, whilst removing his heavy greatcoat and slinging it over a free chair.

'I'm well aware of that Walter – you two caused enough raucous to bring half of the damn Wehrmacht down on the old manor'.

'Again, apologies, Sir Islands'.

Islands grunted 'It was a long shot at best; no one has ever got near that little bastard, not with that _thing_ trailing him around every second of the day, at least'.

Walter shrugged, and Andrew turned a little pale.

'We may have a more pressing problem, however, sir'.

Islands turned a deathly cold glare on his blank faced agent.

'Tell me you weren't followed here, Walter'.

'As far as I can tell, sir, until we reached Scotland – we weren't', Walter lied blithely.

'But', Islands prompted.

'We were ambushed by an enemy agent at a roadside checkpoint not far from the city, we killed him, but not before he could make his report'.

_Yeah, _Andrew reflected silently, _we killed him in fucking Stoke, three hundred miles from the border_.

Sir Islands turned his withering glare on Andrew, 'this is all correct, I assume, agent?'

'Yes sir'.

'It was Andrew's quick thinking that defeated the Millennium man sir, some kind of clockwork simulacra; I'd recommend him for a medal…if we ever get around to that sort of thing of course'.

_Oh thanks__ Walter. _

'Then we have a _serious_ problem', Islands answered quietly. 'It won't take Millennium long to figure out where we're hiding…and that means the whole command staff is in mortal danger, not to mention the troops in the City Chambers'.

'We will defend them, sir; it is still Hellsing's duty to combat the supernatural, in whatever form it may take, wherever we may find ourselves'.

'I'm well aware of that Walter', Islands snapped. 'What kind of strength did they arrive in at the manor?'

'The Major and his Captain, at least three squadrons of troops – including artificial vampires – the Van Winkle woman, another sharpshooter I failed to locate-'

'And a twelve foot iron monkey' Andrew interjected.

'Indeed. But that was disposed of'.

'It seems our traitor drew the Major and his merry little band rather effectively', Islands commented with a grimace.

'We both know what they're looking for, sir'.

Islands looked up at Walter, and opened his mouth to reply, when a rumble of artificial thunder shook the walls, cutting him off instantly.

A thin trickle of dust seeped from a crack above them.

'I think they've found us', Andrew moaned softly.

* * *

George Square, Glasgow, 1964

Someone seemed to have taken quite a liking to Wagner.

Said someone, had taken great care in affixing huge loud speakers to the flanks of his helicopter, and was currently proceeding to blast both his compatriots and the enemy in equal measures with the bombastic overture of _Ride of the __Valkyries_.

Not that the Major was complaining, of course, he had simply figured the average Englishman more a connoisseur of Bach or Vivaldi.

Looking out of the open side door of his FLUH-500 helicopter, the Major once again reflected on how stunningly easy it was to requisition all the men and material he could ever want, or need, from the dreary government of this equally dreary little country.

Surrounding his own aircraft were seventeen other helicopters, flying in open formation, ten of which carried his Einstazcommando (?). The remaining seven were configured as gunships, flying escort for the heavily loaded transports and air support for the inevitable ground assault.

Ahead of them, slowly emerging from dense mist and wild snow squalls loomed the squat, baroque bulk of the Glasgow City Chambers. He raised his radio to his mouth and screamed over the wind:

'_This__ is__ Loki leader to Loki g__unships – commence direct fire support!_'.

A bare few seconds later, the twin A3 twenty-four tube rocket launchers mounted beneath the stubby little wings of each of the seven gunships erupted into life, dozens of unguided projectiles leaping from each pod in a blaze of fire, streaking through the mist.

They slammed into the bulk of the old Town Hall in a singular mass, splintering the stonework and sending a miniature landslide of carved brickwork crashing into the square. A fair number missed, streaking too wide or too high, leaving faint contrails in the night sky. Still more hammered the open ground before the Chambers, shattering the flag stones and whipping broken stone into an artificial blizzard of shrapnel to match the natural one which continued to so violently buffet the helicopters.

_'__Loki g__unship leader to Loki leader, confirm target hit__ multiple times__'_.

The small armada swept in low, weaving wildly between the fire blackened ruins of the financial district, which stretched up into the sky like the broken skeletal fingers of some infernal giant.

_'Excellent Loki gunships, secure the landing zone'_ the Major replied tautly.

The seven gunships pulled away from their positions to the fore and flanks of the transports, swinging around the edge of the square, raking statues and fountains with their wing mounted 7.62mm Gatling guns, chewing priceless Victorian antiquities into grit and dust in an instant.

The Major switched the channel on his radio.

_'Loki leader to Loki transports_, _begin__ ground deployment__'_.

Whilst the seven gunships flew lazily about them in figure eight 'race track' formation, like great bloated flies encircling a corpse, the remaining helicopters drew up over the square, rotor blades whipping the snow on the ground into mad flurries.

A salvo of FIM-43 'Redeye' surface to air missiles streaked suddenly from a cluster of buildings of on the Major's right flank.

_'VAMPIRES, IN BOUND, THREE O'CLOCK!'_ screamed one of the transport pilots, panicked.

_'Lieutenant'_ the Major prompted calmly, over a third radio channel.

With a sharp 'crack' which was even audible over the almost deafening thudding of rotor blades, a single musket ball streaked from the left hand passenger compartment of the helicopter directly ahead of the Major's transport. Whipping outwards in a long, lazy, circle the tiny, solitary lead ball swung impossibly around one hundred and eighty degrees to the opposite flank of the small airborne flotilla. Trailing a thin blue line in its wake, the musket ball sped up as it closed with the five missiles, then, moving in a bewildering, looping zigzag pattern it smashed into each one in sequence, detonating every one of the American produced warheads in a cloud of fire and a burst of steel fragments.

One of the missiles, however, was caught too close to the transport on the far right of the formation, and a hail of metal splinters severed its tail rotor and sent it spinning to the ground where it struck the flagstones with a grinding of aluminium and a brief bounce.

_'Loki six is down'_ came the voice of the same transport pilot, _'what in the hell was that?'_

_'Nothing you need to remember, pilot'_ the Major cut in, as the nine remaining helicopters came to rest in the square, rotors still turning, as there passengers hurriedly disembarked.

Bullets whipped around the Major as he jumped from the open door of his command transport. The Captain, as ever, close behind him. Several Millennium troopers followed in their wake, scattering instinctively the instant they placed booted feet on solid earth.

One of the human Einstazcommando proved too sluggish, or perhaps simply unlucky, as a salvo of tracer fire from the shattered Town Hall removed the top of his head in a welter of gore.

The Captain grabbed his commanding officer around the scruff of his neck in a burst of motion and drove him down behind the rim of an ornamental fountain in a heap, as more gun fire streaked above their heads.

With a deep 'thump' the helicopter they had just evacuated exploded, blossoming into orange flame as the pilot struggled to raise it back into the sky, showering the huddled group with burning debris. One of the artificials next to the Major was bisected messily by a whirling fragment of rotor which stuck, quivering, through the granite of the fountain, after splitting the unfortunate trooper into chunks.

The Major cursed viciously and wiped a mass of thick black blood from his face.

His uniform was _ruined_.

And, to add insult to injury, he had no idea where the rocket that had destroyed his transport had originated from.

The Captain provided his answer, however, slapping him once on the shoulder with casual strength and pointing off through the mist and snow, towards a swiftly disappearing cluster of resistance fighters – one of whom was carrying an RPG-18.

In response the Major pulled out his radio; _'This is Loki leader to Loki support, requesting air strike at…'_ he proceeded to rime of a series of co-ordinates he hoped would land said air strike on the correct foe, as opposed to his own suddenly hard pressed troops.

* * *

Miles away, above the dense layers of low cloud that enveloped the warzone so thoroughly, a trio of Me-376 _Reaver_ fighter bombers, built in Germania, flown by British RAF pilots, banked hard to port and dived at supersonic speeds.

'That's a Tallyho Loki leader, we have targets'.

* * *

The Major hurriedly switched channels once again.

_'__Lieutenant Van Winkle, drop back and have your men establish a rear guard, __a __resistance counter attack is imminent, all other Millennium forces, forward repeat forward – close with the enemy, show them no quarter!' _

He lowered his radio, then, with second thoughts raised it to speak again.

_'__Schmeisser__, I know you're lurking around this damned square somewhere, __get__ over here'_.

He craned his head as three _Jagdbombers _lethal dagger shaped ground attack fighters, streaked in almost unbelievably low, delivering a mixed payload of old fashioned hi-explosive gravity bombs and newer, more destructive cluster weapons.

The already partially collapsed office buildings flanking the square dissolved in a huge explosion, sending a geyser of wreckage cart wheeling through the air, showering the developing battle with lethal fragments.

His own troops were breaking out their Panzershreck-200's as they advanced; white contrails crisscrossed the square as the anti-tank projectiles blew out the defensive positions of the British partisans. As he watched, the first of his men soon broke into the ruins of the city chambers, ducking under window ledges and throwing anti-personnel grenades above their heads before proceeding, the ill trained resistance fighters quickly collapsed in the face of his Kampgruppe of Ubermensch.

_'A Knight's C__ross to the first man in the building, __with __oak leaves to the first into the tunnels!'_ the Major exulted, jubilant in the initial stage of his victory.

'A fine start Herr Major'.

He jumped despite himself.

Hermann Schmessier had appeared, sitting casually next to them as the bullets whistled past.

'Thank you Hermann, it reminds of my time in Spain somewhat. And a commendation on your intelligence reports, 'Huntsman', tracking them to the very heart of the resistance was an impressive feat by any standard'.

The scruffy trooper shrugged, and lit a cigarette.

'I want you to lead the attack into the tunnels, move into the City Chambers and relay what you find back to me'.

'Aye Herr Major', he answered, before pushing himself to his feet and springing lithely over the rim of the fountain.

* * *

Below Glasgow City Chambers, Glasgow, 1964

'Yes, it would seem that they have' Sir Islands replied to Andrew, rhetorically.

'Rocket strike on the Chambers, sir' one of the radio operators relayed calmly to no one in particular.

'In bound helicopters, count is eighteen no…make that seventeen Foxtrot-Lima-Uniform-Hotel five-zero-zero's sir, reports of ground assault in progress' another added.

'Dammit', came the gruff, Irish tones of Mayne, who was only now looking up from the charts he had been studying. 'What the devil are our SAM men doing? Having a fucking picnic up there?'

'Missiles were confirmed launched sir, but…its confusing…apparently they were _shot down_'.

'What?' he asked the obviously confounded radio operator.

'Some kind of ECM?' Churchill put in.

'No sir, defiantly, shot – physically shot down'. The command staff looked at each other, then as one at Sir Islands and his agents.

'Millennium, gentlemen' he stated, simply.

The whole command centre fell silent. Each man whether veteran soldier, sailor or politician - all looked to Sir Islands for direction.

'Continue your work, gentlemen, Hellsing will deal with this'. He turned, opened the steel hatch, and gestured for his agents to follow him out. After they had left the control centre, he pulled a small radio from his jacket pocket and handed it to Andrew.

'Get as many men together as you can, go to the armoury on the next sub-level, there is a small stock of silver bullets available – take them – and reinforce the barricade in the junction chamber'. Andrew nodded hurriedly, turned on his heel and ran the back down the length of the corridor.

Islands then turned to his Butler.

'I think we have a certain something, Walter, that it has become necessary to deliver'.

* * *

George Square, Glasgow, 1964

The Major and his bodyguard, escorted by the two surviving artificials, moved closer to the City Chambers at a run, occasionally zigzagging to put of the aim of any snipers, they quickly reached the stone steps that led up into the entrance hall.

His radio crackled into life.

_'Encountering significant__ opposition in the tunnels, Herr Major, casualties are heavy amongst the human contingent'. _

_'Copy that, __Schmeisser__, reinforcements will arrive shortly'_.

The Major switched to the fourth and final channel.

_'__Fornj__ó__t__, deploy'_.

(When I say 'vampires' I mean military code for missiles - not literal, you know...vampires. Also the next chapter, will, at long last include ALUCARD. Oh yeahz.)


	14. King Nothing, Part One

George Square, Glasgow, 1964

Günter Krupt.

Born, 1930, Latvia, to ethnic German parents – repatriated to the Reich from the Soviet Union, 1943. Family settled on the outskirts of the city of Danzig. Intermediate levels of education, joined the Heer, 1950, deployed as Panzer Grenadier with Grossdeutschland Division during the Turkish crisis of 1953.

Came to the attention of Millennium, 1954, after an engagement in Ankara province in which his unit came under sustained and severe attack from Asiatic rebels.

Extraordinary pyrokinetic abilities demonstrated as a result of extreme stress.

Operational codename: _Fornj__ó__t_

The Major had memorised the records of each and every one of his soldiers, he could bring everything from service history to prior employment to tax records instantaneously to mind. He considered it a part of his multifarious responsibilities, as a commander, to know the strengths and weakness of each and every member of his battalion, to be able to deploy every unique individual to a situation suited exclusively to their particular…talents.

Günter Krupt, however, was more than just 'another' member of his battalion.

He was one of the Doctor's pet projects, one of his eternally indulged 'psychics'.

He was a pyrokinetic.

A _firestarter_.

The Doctor maintained a unit of four, of which Krupt was the third. Although, officially, they were know as 'Kampfgruppe Galland' the men had christened them 'The Four Horsemen', a ridiculous moniker typical of the kind routinely doled out by combat units.

As Krupt made his way through the blizzard of ice and snow sweeping the square, trudging towards the shattered entrance to the City Chambers, the Major could easily make out the mass of livid, red scars that covered almost the entirety of his formerly comely face.

It had taken him many years, and much painful experimentation, to control his abilities.

A charred, fire blackened steel chamber beneath the Wewelsburg, along with Krupt's own horrific third degree burns, were testament to his truly heroic struggles in the service of the Reich.

With his long wrap-around coat of ochre leather, which was fashioned almost like the cassock of some obscene priest and which glistened wetly with fire-retardant gel, flapping around him in the howling gale he began his steady ascent into the war ravaged building with neither word not gesture of acknowledgement to his superior.

He slowly and carefully pulled a field gas mask down over his ravaged features as he passed, his calm, regular breathing suddenly amplified into a deep, disturbing rasp.

On his left arm, a simple red, white and black party loyalty band.

* * *

Below Glasgow City Chambers, Glasgow, 1964

Andrew Victoria pelted down the spiralling concrete stairway that led towards the armoury and small barracks complex, he was panicking, he knew, but that was something which he had absolutely no intention of ceasing to do any time in the foreseeable future.

In his blind rush he ran straight into Kelly, who was sprinting _up_ the stairs, almost bowling the little resistance fighter from her feet.

'What the hell is going on?' she gasped at him, after untangling herself hastily from her friend.

'We're under attack.'

'Really? I never would have guessed' she replied, her voice positively oozing sarcasm.

Andrew made a snap decision and grabbed her hand.

'Come on'.

'Shouldn't we be going the _other _way, Andrew?'

'We have to get to the armoury'.

'I have a gun' she answered flatly, waving her M-14 in his face as he half dragged her back down the staircase.

'We're…' he paused, turned and looked at her 'under attack by…vampires'.

'What?' Kelly gaped at him, 'this is no time for fucking around Andrew' she snapped, suddenly angry.

'I'm not fucking about' he snarled back, before resuming his headlong charge downwards, once again almost crashing into a group of resistance fighters, a half a dozen men led by Bram, coming from the opposite direction.

'Air attack?' he asked.

'No' Kelly answered over her shoulder as she was pulled past them 'vampires'.

'Eh?'

'God dammit, just follow me!' Andrew yelled as he ducked around a corner and through the hatch to the armoury.

* * *

There had been just enough ammunition to equip the nine of them with bolt action rifles, and then to issue them with the correct calibre of silver bullets. Each round had been blessed prior to use, bathed in holy water, and then inscribed with minute devotions and holy catechisms.

Andrew thought that a solid hit from the powerful old Lee-Enfield's would be able to put down one of the Millennium troopers.

Well, hopefully, he thought, as they scrambled up the rear of the rough curtain wall, and lay down on the 'rampart' rifles pointed towards the single entrance to the junction room. To their left and right were other resistance troops, their motley collection of small arms pointed in the same direction.

'This is fucking stupid, Andrew-'

'Kelly, if there's one thing I ever wanted you to trust me on, this is that thing – ok?'

She just glared back at him; his hasty explanation of the situation as they left the armoury, combined with the obvious panic of the quartermaster when he had requested the special ammunition, had served to dull the sharp edge of her doubts.

He had no reason to lie, she considered, which only left her with the even less appealing answer of 'he's cracked up'.

A burst of static from the radio of a nearby officer served to belay her unwelcome chain of considerations.

_'T__his is outpost three to curtain wall, we are under attack, no reports from outposts one or two, assuming that they've all bought it…hold on sir, enemy in sight…commencing fire!'_

The thunder of automatic weapons filled the radio network.

_'__Fu-f__ucking, Christ, pull back to outpost four! Si-Sir they're fucking monsters sir, our weapons are useless, they're too __fas__-'_

The officer on the curtain wall cut into the terrified chatter _'__Lieutenant __Bamber__ to __outpost three, confirm withdrawal'_. He paused, waiting for a reply. When none proved forthcoming he raised the radio again _'Outpost three?__'_.

There came a crackling, and then a clatter down the still open channel, as if someone were fumbling with the radio, trying to switch from 'receive' to 'transmit' with unfamiliar equipment.

_'__Gutentag__ Englanders! __Wo__wohnst__ du? __Millennium __kommit__, Englanders __ich__-'_

The officer holding the set quite sensibly terminated the transmission.

The men on the wall exchanged worried glances as he contacted the radio operators a few metres down the corridor behind them, reporting the situation to his superiors.

'See?' Andrew whispered to Kelly, and at Bram's handful of men behind her.

They all retained a good degree of their scepticism, and yet, each had suddenly gone from wondering how this seemingly demented council agent, blithering frantically about vampires, werewolves and something called 'Millennium', had convinced them to take up ancient rifles and silver bullets to flat wondering what the bloody hell was going on.

'Shit! Here they come!' came a frantic cry from down the line.

And instant later the entire cavernous space was filled with the relentless hammering of frenzied gunfire.

* * *

Hermman Schmeisser ducked neatly out of the tunnel doorway and into the huge, open, area beyond. This massive subterranean sewage network was not exactly somewhere he would have described as his natural habitat, and this _Rattenkreig_, close quarters combat with assault rifles, grenades and sharpened entrenching tools, was equally not his chosen field of conflict.

The artificial vampires, on the other hand, revelled in it. They threw themselves forward, impetuously hurdling the deep concrete channels in the floor without even allowing the blood of the humans they had recently slain in the tunnels to dry on their hands, stocks and most disturbingly, teeth. The score of supernatural shock troopers blazed wildly at the defenders on the wall as they advanced, spinning effortlessly between the volleys of rifle fire that blanketed the prepared 'killing zone' before the barricades.

Schmeisser ducked behind a concrete outcropping not far from the entrance. He had no intention of throwing himself at a prepared position like some demented fool lost to the beserkergang.

As he watched he saw the first of the artificials, screeching hatred in what may once have passed for Romanian, crouch down on all fours like some terrible stalking predator and then spring the full length of the steep incline of the curtain wall, landing with a wide, dreadful grin in front of a group of resistance fighters near the centre of the barricade.

* * *

Andrew screamed and scrabbled back a few feet, towards the lip of the rampart.

The crouching SS trooper in front of him was like some primordial nightmare from a forgotten legend, its prodigious quantity of razor sharp teeth, scraps of viscera and hair wedged between them, dripping blood down the front of its mottled grey and black fatigues. In one hand it held a red smeared Stg-47, and in the other a wickedly curved entrenching tool.

A pair of severed human heads were tied, by their hair, to its exquisitely tooled leather belt.

Eyes still wide with shock, mouths hanging limply open.

It leered crookedly at him.

'Fee! Fie! Foe! Fum! I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he 'live, or be he dead, _I'll grind his bones to make my bread_'.

Andrew fumbled for his rifle, tried to raise it – too slow, the vampire moved to pounce.

Kelly shot it in the face, point blank.

The roar of the old Enfield, right next to his ear almost deafened Andrew. He could see the SS creature, one eye rolling grotesquely independent of the other, a single neat bullet hole below it.

With a groan it keeled over, dead, for a second time.

Bram and the other resistance fighters needed no further prompting to open fire, carefully taking aim and squeezing precious single shots off at the other vampires.

'That wasn't so manful of me, was it, Kelly?'

* * *

Schmeisser watched three of the artificials drop in quick succession after the failure of their over eager compatriot to get across the curtain wall.

He flicked on his radio _'Pull back you idiots, they have silver ammunition'_.

He turned towards his newly arrived, human, soldiers – the dozen survivors of the brutal running battle through the barricades.

'You as well, back into to the tunnels'.

* * *

Andrew watched with some considerable surprise as the Millennium troopers began to retreat, both the group huddled by the entrance, and the vampires that had been attacking them.

_Why are they retreating? _

It didn't feel right. They should have pushed the assault, yes, a few of them had silver bullets – but most did not and he was the only one, as far as he knew, who had ever seen, let alone fought, a vampire before.

They were hardly the Siegfried Line.

A few woops and shouts of victory were raised from the troops, but most seemed too traumatized by their first encounter with the supernatural for any degree of celebration.

Andrew did not have long to dwell on the precise reasons for the German retreat, they quickly became apparent as a lone figure came into view, slipping between the retreating storm troopers as they dropped rapidly back into the tunnels.

Clad in a long ochre coat and black military issue gas mask, with party armband proudly displayed on one arm, what Andrew could only assume was a 'he' cut an eccentric figure in the blood and grime splattered underground warzone.

'Anyone think they can hit him from here?' Andrew mumbled. He had seen a Millennium werewolf, and a Millennium vampire, up close and personnel now and judging from those experiences – he had quickly decided that he was in no mood for a CQC session with whatever the hell this was.

Both Bram and Kelly answered in the affirmative, leveled their rifles, and took aim.

Twin tongues of flame lashed out, and a pair of silver bullets closed the gap between them and this latest foe in the blink of an eye.

Within that same moment, however, the ochre clad man raised his left hand in their direction, the air around it warping and twisting like heat distortion on a summer's day. The two bullets, hurtling at an incredible velocity, struck the blurred mass of superheated air and then _melted_. Not simply running from solid to liquid, however, like molten steel in a blast furnace, but actually striking the heat barrier and _disappearing_.

Gone.

Vaporized.

Andrew, squinting from the barricade, watched the ineffectual attack.

'Fuck'.

'OPEN FIRE' someone screamed, off to their left. In an instant, every man and woman on the rampart jammed their fingers down on the trigger of whatever weapon they held. Hundreds of rounds of all shapes and sizes lashed out towards the solitary German, as he took careful, measured, steps forwards – now with both arms outstretched to his sides.

The heat distortion expanded, as more and more rounds splashed against it, uselessly.

The air around him, suddenly, seemed to kindle as easily as dry timber and with a soft 'whump' like the lighting of a gas light _blue fire_ enveloped his entire body, viscous tongues of liquid balefire dribbled from his arms, head and torso, carving deep black furrows into the concrete around his feet. The basic shape of a man could still be discerned, but his features and clothes were entirely obscured by the shifting, running, sheets of ethereal flame.

'Fuck'.

Sweat dribbled down from Andrew's forehead, and he swiped it roughly out of his eyes. The entire chamber was heating up, he could feel it. And not just from that 'burning' thing either. It was the air, all around them, getting warmer.

Rapidly.

Firing from the resistance troops had tailed off by now, they were starting to edge slowly back from this steadily advancing human torch.

'Piss and bollocks to this'.

Andrew grabbed Kelly by the back of her coat, and, once again dragging her behind him, turned and ran for his life.

From the other side of the barricade he could hear the grating rasp of the burning man's voice as they fled, filling the cavern:

_'__BuRn __WitH __mE__'_

There was a second, this time thunderous, 'whump' as they reached the hatch to the council chambers, which Andrew threw open, and tumbled through.

Every scrap of air in the huge junction chamber ignited in a sudden and blinding ultramarine flash, the oxygen was ripped from the still living lungs of the fleeing resistance fighters to feed the hungry flames a mere few seconds before they were struck by an expanding wall of fire which fused their weapons into their hands, and flayed black flesh from splintered bone.

Andrew, Kelly, Bram and a handful of others crashed through the opening a few meters ahead of the broiling cloud of supernatural napalm, before, with one desperate kick, Victoria lashed out with his foot and slammed the hatch closed.

The frantic hammering of those caught on the other side was cut of seconds later, as the steel door warped and bent under the impact of the napalm wall.

* * *

Andrew looked up at the ceiling.

His vision was badly blurred.

He reached behind him and felt a sticky, wet patch on the back of his head. He must have hit it on the concrete in his rush back through the hatch, he thought. The handful of surviving resistance fighters were moving sluggishly around him, the blast in the central chamber had affected them no better than it had he.

He sat up; his weight on his elbows. All he could hear was one long ringing from between his ears and his throat was red roar from breathing superheated air for the bare few seconds it had had to assault them before he had managed to shut the encroaching blast wave out of their little tunnel.

A massive impact on the twisted door ahead of him snapped him back to full consciousness.

It buckled in the centre, as if some great fist had struck it.

A fist.

'UP, UP!' he screamed at the dazed troops around him, kicking one off of his legs, and bodily pulling another upright. 'Down the corridor, now dammit, and QUICKLY!'

Staggering drunkenly, the seven battered survivors managed to make their way into the slightly wider section in front of the command room, ducking behind the walls where they could, and training their rifles back towards the hatch.

Only four of them had silver ammunition, and those a bare handful of rounds each.

Andrew yanked the radio Sir Islands had given him out of his recently singed coat pocket.

_'Any help would be greatly appreciated about now __sir;__ they'__ve using__ some kind of…bloody…__erm__, human napalm bomb or something. They carved right through the barricade – we're holed up outside the council room'. _

Another massive impact on the hatch.

_'Just a__ little longer__, agent' _came Island's matter of fact reply.

The door behind them opened, Mayne, Churchill and Mountbatten appeared, side arms in hand.

'Sir I think that you should-' Bram began.

'The hell we will Colonel', Mayne interjected bluntly.

'With all due respect, I don't think any of you understand what we're facing down here, sir'.

Mayne looked at each of the terrified men and women before him, all deathly pale, some trembling, drawn up facing the hatch two hundred metres ahead of them.

'I think we do'.

The hatch burst open, and the first SS creature swept through, utterly graceful, totally silent, like oil running across glass.

One and all, the resistance fighters raised their weapons.

And then the lights went out.

* * *

_'By the prickling of my thumbs__…__something wicked__ this way comes'_.

A low, deeply mocking, rumble, that came not from one source but, seemingly, from the darkness all about them.

'Oh, for fucks sake' Andrew moaned.

It was black as the proverbial pitch, he couldn't see the rifle in his own hands and now, he grimly reflected, some new horror from the seemingly endless cavalcade of Nazi freaks.

One of the electric lanterns on the wall, not far from his head, flickered weakly to life, casting insanely stretched, wildly flickering shadows up and down the tunnel.

In the dim yellow light it provided, he suddenly caught sight of a single, massive figure blocking the corridor.

Both arms outstretched, a hand on either wall. Incredibly, it seemed to Andrew, facing not towards his own beleaguered little force – but towards the equally incredulous Millennium vampires still slipping in ones and twos through the open hatch.

At seven or even eight feet in height, he almost needed to duck to fit into the narrow space. He wore a dry and cracked leather suit that appeared half military uniform, half straight jacket, with a cluster of broken, loose straps hanging down from his arms. A pair of spotless white gloves covered his hands – some cryptic occult symbol emblazoned boldly across each.

His hair was long and a lank, lifeless, iron grey, reaching almost to his waste, his eyes a pale milky orange, his face split into a smirk of truly unparalleled malice.

'Wh-wh-what the hell?' the lead SS trooper managed to stammer out, just about recovering from his sudden shock.

'Who are you? Wh-wh-ere did you come from?'

An inane question, this latest monster mused.

'Valhalla' it smirked improbably at this obnoxious, presumptuous little thing.

'And I have been called many, many things in my long centuries, child, but here they like to call me _Alucard_'.

(I GIVETH THEE ALUCARD! Warning, the next four chapters will essentially be Alucard killing. So, if you don't like that – YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

And I know I changed the design of the Doctor's little band, from 'men in black types' to a more rounded carnival of crazy crap…but I like this more).


	15. King Nothing, Part Two

Below Glasgow City Chambers, Glasgow, 1964

The third Schutzstaffel behind the leader, with a snarl, shouldered aside his perplexed companions and sprang forwards, assault rifle leading. This _thing_ had the audacity to stand in his path, between him and his mission objectives, between him and his _next meal_ - and that was all the provocation that he needed.

He got to within three paces of his target.

With a flash of blinding speed, this creature, this _Alucard_, lashed out with a single gloved hand and smashed the hurtling two hundred pound mass of the SS vampire aside, crushing his head, helmet and all, into a wet red pulp that ground through six or more inches of reinforced concrete, with a nauseating grating of breaking bone, before juddering to a halt.

'Now that was just rude'.

Alucard yanked the storm trooper, by the tattered mass of his head, from the trench that he had ground him into. Holding him in one hand, he lifted him up to eye level and peered into the ruined chasm where his face should have been.

He was most certainly deceased.

Alucard shook the corpse, watching it flop limply from one side to another.

His grin disappeared quickly, and a deep frown creased his ivory, hawkish, features.

The dead Schutzstaffel was dropped like so much refuse, landing in a broken heap around booted feet. At the same moment, the slowly expanding pool of crimson spreading from the corpse, impossibly, twisted its inexorable flow from down the gentle incline of the tunnel towards the frozen resistance fighters, and abruptly began to run _backwards_. Not towards the sodden, wrecked bundle that it had seeped from, however, but instead towards his killer, where it seemed to run against his feet and then disappear, absorbed, assimilated, digested, _drank_.

'Mein Gott', one of the recently departed trooper's comrades managed to whimper, stepping back involuntary from the lurid scene unfolding before him, fear unexpectedly flowing back into a mind that had long since regarded such troublesome emotions as banished.

The frown on Alucard's face softened and then disappeared entirely as the dead soldier's blood oozed through dry veins and brittle arteries, bringing with it a lifetime of memories and experiences.

'Such _horror_, such madness, such…_wonder_' he smiled, 'entire peoples expunged, throttled, annihilated, hundreds of millions dead, billions bound to servitude all this on the whim of but a few _men_. And you call _us_ the monsters?'

Laughter.

Anger flashed across Alucard's features once more with all the sudden passion of a summer storm, 'but you' he spat at the storm troopers 'you, you have given up so _much_ for so _little_ – you are shadows – you are _nothing_'.

He planted a hand firmly on each wall.

'Now die, and furnish me your strength'.

The storm troopers, having recovered from their shock, levelled their weapons, numbers, training and experience gave them confidence. Had they not faced enumerable foes together, had they not always triumphed?

Of course, the last thing they had expected after all their collective years of war was to suddenly hear a faint and distant _pattering_. Like raindrops on a window pane. Softer, and then growing louder, and louder still until their keen vampiric senses could distinguish individual movements from the growing mass of sound encroaching on them from every direction.

It was the movement of _millions_ of tiny feet.

A dozen half metre wide grids set into the floor and ceiling, overflow channels from when the tunnel had been part of the maintenance network for the city sewers, exploded from their fastenings. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of _rats_, what seemed like every one of the little vile rodents within a hundred miles poured into the corridor, flooding the enclosed space with a living deluge of tiny brown and black bodies. The SS troopers, for all their soldier's machismo, screamed and opened fire in a blind, horrified, panic.

But neither their bullets, nor their supernatural vigour, nor their incredible celerity were of any use against the indescribably vast mass that attacked them now.

A huge tidal wave of rats descended on them, burying Alucard and his mocking laughter, as they fought each other in a mad frenzy to reach the Schutzstaffel.

They tore and scratched at SS uniforms, clawing out eyes, chewing through ears, pouring down open mouths like water, gnawing through layers of fabric and into the pale, white flesh beneath – burrowing into the screaming, frantic vampires, _hollowing_ them out from the inside, grinding through unmoving organs and worrying bones to broken splinters in a bare few seconds.

One particularly lithe trooper managed to twist around and reach for the open hatch – which slammed too, as if struck by some invisible blow, severing one desperately reaching hand and leaving its former owner to drown beneath a writhing carpet of rodent flesh.

* * *

Andrew was past screaming.

He just clung blindly to Kelly as what seemed like every rat in existence crawled across them, the diminutive creatures charged inexorably forwards, up the corridor, filling it in no time at all.

And yet not a one bit nor scratched any of the terrified resistance fighters. They just flowed across them, as if some terrible, singular will guided them.

Which, of course, was exactly what was happening.

As the rats, and the screams, began to die off Andrew opened his eyes and braved a look down the tunnel towards where he had last seen their 'saviour'.

He was gone, buried.

Then, with a screeching of tortured metal, the hatch at the end of the corridor burst open and the rats spilled out into the junction room beyond. As the tunnel emptied, he caught sight of 'Alucard', the Count, whoever he was. The rats were shifting out of his path, parting for him, as he calmly advanced through the hatch, a smile that was nearly serene on his face.

He suddenly became conscious of Sir Islands and Walter standing behind him.

Andrew noticed that Islands had a thin cut across the palm of one hand.

Alucard raised one arm, almost lazily and without looking backwards, and the hatch slammed shut.

'God help us', the iron knight whispered.

* * *

The thin, weak blood of the dead vampires flowed quickly through the cracks around the base of the recently resealed steel doorway, zigzagging between the rats, and then plunging deep into Alucard. His hair was now streaked freely with obsidian, his eyes were a sharper reddish orange, his suit was less cracked, some of the lustre now returned to the ancient leather.

He looked swiftly about the cavernous chamber.

A few, frail flood lamps hung limply from the roof – swinging free of their brackets on long electrical cables. A rough barricade of what looked like scrap iron and stone chunks that bisected the room had been fused into a solid, melted lump. The walls were in little better state, scorched black.

Corpses lay scattered haphazardly around him, horrendously burnt.

He held one arm up to halt the crawling mass of his rats, and carefully ascended the amalgamated bulk of material ahead of him. On the other side, a man in an ochre coat and gas mask hunched over a squealing, charred figure spread on the ground before him.

He dangled a tiny silver Star of David in one hand, evidently taken from the neck of whatever it was he was 'interrogating'.

_'__JuDEn__?'_ it rasped.

What Alucard now made out to be a man, spat defiantly into his face, a wad of bloody phlegm splattering across one blank plastic eyepiece.

Blue flame abruptly silhouetted the ochre man's left hand, which he then proceeded to slowly and menacingly flex, running the liquid fire leisurely back and forth before the eyes of the hapless man under him. He stabbed it downwards with a sudden jerk, into the face of his captive, melting clean through to the concrete beneath.

Alucard snarled in irritation.

'_Fornjot_, I assume?'

Krupt stood, and cocked his head in the direction of this latest arrival, curiosity evident in his mannerisms. If he had been less engrossed in his grubby little piece of torture, he would have perhaps heard the screams of the now deceased storm troopers, and would have perhaps adopted a little more caution.

As it stood, however, he saw only one thing to do.

The air around him ignited with the same 'whump' as before, once again coating him in a shifting azure blaze. He raised both arms, and unleashed a wall of flame. Alucard, though, was well prepared for this, fortified as he was by the knowledge of the departed SS vampires. With a flick of his wrist he sent his rats pilling forwards, heedlessly throwing themselves over the barricade in a great, irregular, tidal wave.

The rats converged into a huge wedge of bodies before Alucard, ploughing themselves into the expanding fire in a single, suicidal, mass.

Tens of thousands were immolated in a flash, but, hundreds of thousands more swarmed to take their places as they fell aside, roasted to so much ash. Alucard, meanwhile, descended gracefully down the opposite slope of the barricade, crushing tiny charred bodies under his feet, the rats forming a squirming protective aegis all around him.

_A living ablative shield._

As Alucard drew calmly nearer to Krupt, the Millennium pyrokinetic, aghast at this unbelievable advance in the face of all his not inconsiderable strength bent his indomitable will to driving his furnace to still greater intensity, searing relentlessly through incredible quantities of rat flesh, plunging tongues of fire towards the creature at the heart of the mass.

At last, with the rolling bulk but a few feet from him, it collapsed in on itself, crumbling rapidly - his inferno devouring the last of the rodents.

_He was gone._

Krupt went from euphoric victory to total confusion. Surely there would be some remains, he considered, surely something, some small scrap of him must have survived the flames? Unless…

The two weak lights, already hanging precariously from the ceiling, dipped and then flickered out.

Krupt was blanked by total darkness, but, if this _thing_, this herder of low animals, thought that he could blind _him_ the _firestarter_, then he was sorely mistaken. He proceeded to coax a small, yet powerful, flame into life in the centre of each palm, bathing the chamber in an eerie blue light.

Alucard towered in all his hideous glory over his right shoulder, leering psychotically.

A hand slammed down on each of Krupt's outstretched arms, pinning them at his sides like bands of iron, extinguishing the twin flames and sending them plummeting once more into primordial darkness. His voice was just a whisper, creeping into the terrified German's ear from meagre inches away:

'And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked, and I beheld a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death,_ and__ all__ Hell followed with him_'.

Krupt screamed in the immovable grasp of this creature from the shadows and ignited himself in one, last, desperate effort to destroy his foe, consuming them both in a sheet of raging blue flame. But it was a futile gesture, fangs had already closed about his neck, and life's blood flowed freely from one to the other.

* * *

Hermann Schmeiser slipped a single, heavy, silver round from his ammunition belt and jammed it into the breach of his rifle. He peered over his scope, carefully aligning the barrel of his massive Elephant Gun down the tunnel. 

'All of you, back to the surface, hold the staircase'.

The human troops, quite traumatised enough for one night, offered no argument as they turned and fled.

The fire ahead of him flickered and died as the last of Krupt's life ebbed away, his assailant let the firestarter's corpse drop to the floor in a boneless heap as the lamps in the chamber buzzed back. In their pale, white, light Schmeiser could easily make out the massive blackened figure that had crushed his compatriot.

He had been gruesomely burned.

Great swathes of flesh had been flayed from his face – and patches of bone poked weirdly through the scorched ruin of skin and muscle – his hair had been burnt completely away, his eyes, nose and ears were gone, replaced with yawning empty holes. His leather suit was melted to him in places, and in other areas it had been entirely scoured from his body. Huge, black, globules of flesh piled around his feet.

Any mortal would have long since expired.

Schmeiser toggled his radio to the command channel; '_Fornjot__ is dead, have encountered a second supernatural party. __Most likely a vampire__, male, and not the __Hellsing__ Butler, r__equesting further instructions_'.

There was a long pause before the Major replied.

'_Terminate with extreme prejudice_'.

And the net went dead.

Schmeiser drew back the bolt of his rifle, took careful aim, and fired.

However, even before he had completely depressed the massive trigger, the sightless blackened head had swivelled unerringly in his direction, mouth splitting into a horrifically broken grin. Hermann looked up from the scope as his round struck the target, eyes widening slowly in surprise.

The blind, deaf, ruined vampire held one arm outstretched towards him, fist clenched. Within it, his keen vision picked out the smoking, twisted silver bullet.

He opened his hand and let it fall to the floor.

As Schmeiser watched, tendrils of blood licked out of the rents and burns that blanketed the vampire's body, curling round his wounds, covering them, _healing _them in seconds. First skin and muscle, then hair and ears, eyes and lips, mouth and nose. His entire face, formerly scorched to the bone, repaired, almost instantaneously. Even his clothes, previously consisting of some kind of leather strait jacket, ran and shifted, reforming from the mass of blood leaking from their owner's body.

A long coat, so red as to be almost black, a finely cut suit and high, square toed riding boots replaced the tattered attire of a prisoner with the garments of a well heeled Victorian gentleman.

'Alucard, of Hellsing' he bowed 'a pleasure to make your acquaintance'.

Schmeiser carefully laid down his rifle and swung his ammunition belt from his shoulder.

This was _clearly_ not a foe to be dealt with from afar.

He reached down to his side and pulled his knife from its sheath. A wickedly curved Kukri blade, edged with silver. He took a few quick steps down the tunnel, dropping into a fighters crouch as he stepped into the war ravaged chamber beyond, he circled warily to one side, knife held in a reverse grip, free arm out wide of his body.

This 'Alucard' seemed for all the world utterly unconcerned.

He pivoted slowly as Schmeiser circled about him, grinning. He inhaled deeply, like an animal, dragging air into dry lungs that had not felt it in years. '_Oh_' he smiled. 'You are special, aren't you? Much more interesting than that spoilt gas lamp of a child' he said, waving with one hand back in the general direction of Krupt's remains, before clasping them both behind his back.

Schmeiser sprang forwards, coming in low, swinging with calm, calculated blows.

The vampire barely moved, merely jerking his head or torso aside with swift and economical motions to avoid the knife strikes. He back pedalled a few steps, to put him beyond the reach of his attacker as Schmeiser resumed his cautious circling.

'Oh come, come now – let me see your _teeth_' Alucard chided, still grinning.

He swept in again and, again, Alucard weaved effortlessly between the blows. Schmeiser broke off his attack, pivoted elegantly three hundred and sixty degrees and drove the Kukri for Alucard's neck. With the knife mere inches from his throat the vampire lashed out with one hand, the other still behind his back, and seized Schmeiser's forearm, holding it fast.

With their faces but centimetres from each other Alucard's hawkish features pale and calm, Schmeiser's twisted into a snarl, the vampire easily sensed the change in his foe. First it was a faint smell, of spring and summer, of the forest, of moist earth and damp grass - and then he could actually _see _it. His irises, formerly a faint sky blue shifted abruptly – to deepest jade, his skin warped, and changed, bristling, transmutating, to, of all things a worn, ancient and chipped _bark_.

Alucard roared laughter in his foes wildly altering features.

'Come then, and let us see the lost fury of an _Erl__ King!_'

(Yes he's a weretree. Lol, well, no - I'm going for 'The Faun from pans Labyrinth' meets 'The Wild Hunt' meets 'A Ninja'. I wish I could draw well enough to illustrate (literally) these ideas that I have! Ho Hum. Also, a shiney gold star for me for the Angela Carter reference!)


	16. King Nothing, Part Three

Below Glasgow City Chambers, 1964

Schmeisser staggered backwards, putting several metres of open space between him and Alucard as his body was wracked by violent convulsions. Exposed flesh peeled away in long thin strips, revealing a new gnarled and twisted wooden epidermis, pitted and scarred, chipped and broken. His ragged SS uniform gave way at the seams explosively as his already considerable bulk swelled dramatically, revealing a massive barrel of a torso blanketed with sharp, jagged spurs. With the creaking of a tortured sapling his legs extended weirdly and snapped backwards at the knee, reversing into a form and shape more akin to a wolf or dog than man. As the last tatters of bronzed skin peeled grotesquely from his fingertips viciously extended talons of broken wood groaned into place and he dropped his knife, his back straightened, raising him to a monstrous twelve feet, towering over his vampiric foe.

In a final hideous twist, a gigantic pair of antlers drove themselves brutally from his brow, crowning his twisted yet bizarrely noble features with the great horns of an Irish elk. He, or rather _it_, snarled and slammed one hoofed foot into the ground, cracking the blackened concrete.

'An _Erl__-King_...I'd thought you all_ long_ dead, this age of blood and iron seems less to your kind's liking than even my time was'.

'No time that you remember was ever to our liking, _Koldun_, and more is the pity that you little parasites still infest these grim nights, I had hoped to see the end of your kin long ago', Schmeisser's voice had mutated too, now deep with age and heavy with strength.

'We are a tenacious breed', Alucard smiled thinly.

'Like cockroaches'.

'Like humans'.

Schmeisser took a single huge step forwards.

'I have killed a hundred of your ilk, vampire, I was at the Cathedral of Bones, I remember the dawn and what you creatures did to my brothers, I saw their flayed hides nailed to the doors'.

Alucard shrugged nonchalantly as Schmeisser bellowed his hatred, lowered his colossal antlers and charged.

The vampire took the impact head on, not even attempting to dodge as the huge horns drove through his chest and out of his back, not even trying to dislodge himself as he was plucked from his feet, neither struggling nor crying out as, with a sharp flick of his massively muscled neck Schmeisser sent him crashing into the far wall like a limp doll. Where he struck it the brickwork shattered, cracks radiating outwards like a spiders web.

Alucard slumped to the floor in a heap, a trail of crimson smeared behind him.

The massive Erl-King snorted again, dismissively this time.

'You don't live up to your moniker, vampire' he began to walk slowly across the chamber, with a long easy stride, towards Alucard.

'You shall be the third leech that called himself 'Dracula', or some variation thereof, I have killed', he smiled as he reached the motionless figure by the wall.

'The first I split in half when old Queen Vic was on the throne and the map was covered in red, the second I broke not thirty years ago, when the world was becoming a very different place...once' he continued 'I even slew one of you who claimed to be no other than the Centurion Longinus himself'. He reached down and drove his talons through Alucard's stomach in a great welter of blood, effortlessly raising his prone form from the ground until it was level with his eyes.

'Your fine names forever lead to me to expect more than what I get, I must admit though, that was a fine trick, with the rats, and your regenerative abilities are truly impressive – but I've never seen one of your kind grow a head back' he raised his free hand, and then swept it down in a dramatic arc aimed to take the vampires crown clean off.

Abruptly, the vampire raised his head, looking through the blood smeared hair plastered to his face, and grinned wildly at his huge assailant. His eyes were a terrible piercing red rimmed with black, and they bored right into Schmeisser. His stomach lurched, sudden inexplicable panic driving away his formerly unassailable confidence.

His arm juddered to a stop for no good reason, inches from his target.

'But, Erl-King, in all your years of so efficiently pulling my kind apart, did you never once stop to ask yourself, what if _there really is a Dracula?_'

The creature on his claw bulged hugely, swelling grotesquely as if something, or things, inside were thrashing around to escape, before exploded apart into thousands upon thousands of huge bats, leaving as evidence of his presence no more than a slender stream of blood running down Schmeisser's arm. The bats tore at him with tiny claws and leathery wings as they passed, whirling around in vicious circles as he flailed his huge arms about, attempting vainly to scatter the irksome creatures.

_'What if'_ the vampire's voice came again, now seemingly not from any one place but from all about _'all those tails they told you about the ancient vampires, the Blood Gods, were true, what if the stories you dismissed were real? What if there really _is _a Dracula? What if there really _is _a Longinus?_'.

The bats wheeled away from their quarry, swung wide around the edge of the room and then crashed together in a cacophony of tiny breaking bones and tearing flesh, driving themselves into a single point that grew and shaped itself into the form of a man.

Alucard leered out from the mass.

'All you have met of my kind, _Erl__-King_' he spat the word out, as if it left a bad taste in his mouth 'are fools and children. The Cathedral of Bones was a mockery, children playing children's games in the shadows. You wish to face a _real _vampire? Then face me!'

Before the last words had even left his mouth, Schmeisser had lowered his head once again and charged.

The half formed mass of bats burst apart seconds before he reached it, sending him slamming into the twisted ruin of the barricade which squatted grimly behind where Alucard had been standing.

The bats reformed and settled into a solid mass once again, behind the increasingly enraged Erl-King. He struggled to free his antlers from where they had been driven into the concrete, finally tearing them free, but snapping off a few spurs as he did so.

'More tricks vampire, you're all _talk_', he snarled over his shoulder.

'Releasing control art restriction to level three, level two, _level one_ – situation A, the Cromwell approval is now in effect, _hold release until target is silenced!_'

He spun on his heel to face Alucard again.

'I've finished talking, Erl-King'.

* * *

Andrew, knee deep in Glasgow sewerage, waded awkwardly down what Jack Churchill had called 'the back door'. He slipped on something unmentionable, staggered to one side, and only narrowly avoided a face full of shit water as Bram and Kelly pulled him quickly back to his feet.

His shoulder wound ached viciously and needed dressing properly, he was spotted with angry red blisters, and he was also quite certain that at least three of his ribs were broken.

In the light of his electric lamp, his companions looked little better.

'Christ', he muttered absently to himself.

Walter and the Council, ahead of them, however, stoically drove on up the tunnel without the grumbling of the troops. They were still wrangling over some esoteric questions of strategy, and had been since they had hurriedly evacuated the bunker a few minutes ago.

'We should launch Operation V immediately, that was all too close for comfort, gentlemen' said Mayne.

'How close are our units to the capital?', Penwood asked.

'Close enough', Churchill, this time.

'We have to strike now, whilst the loyal units are focused in the north – we drew them here, and we can't waste the opportunity that that has given us' Mayne continued.

'Agreed' said Mountbatten 'as soon as we get to the secondary command post, begin our withdrawal from Glasgow, and order our loyalist military units into action in the South'.

Andrew fixed his gaze on the Hellsing Butler's back, mulling over what he had heard, whilst trying not to look overly interested. Loyalist army forces? An attack on London? A withdrawal from Glasgow? Not the last stand that Walter had described, then. The question in his mind was, however, simply - did Walter _know_ about this? Andrew suddenly felt that perhaps it was not 'merely' the council that the vampire had misled in his enthusiasm to let that _thing_ out. A _thing_ that now seemed, ironically, only to be combating a threat that _they_ had brought here to begin with – this 'Millennium'.

* * *

Shadows, cast around the room by the battered light fixtures, swirled and shifted around them, multiplying infinitely and spreading out across the walls, like liquid, until the entire chamber was once again enveloped in a terrible, all consuming, darkness.

Schmeisser snarled and snapped his head from side to side, as a creature well used to the blackest hollows and most isolated glades, untouched by human hands, his eyes could peer through the deepest night with perfect clarity. And yet here he was as blind as any mortal, his keen night vision suddenly and totally useless in the face of this wholly unnatural gloom.

A thousand red eyes of all shapes and sizes glowered abruptly at him, from the walls, the floor, the ceiling.

He hissed under his breath, shut out his burgeoning fear, and took a great gulp of air, sifting through the myriad of vile aromas that hung around this underground warren, searching for the particular graveyard reek of the Nosferatu.

He caught it just barely in time, twisting narrowly aside as the vampire tore past him with supernatural celerity, a shower of broken concrete whirling around him from where it struck the ground with almost unbelievable vigour. A few stray chunks hammered against his torso and arms, digging deep gouges in his wooden flesh and drawing thick, black blood.

He continued his sideways movement, dodging a backhanded blow that would certainly have shattered his skull had it connected solidly.

It came at him again, and this time it _was_ too fast. It slammed its fist into his torso; he felt his ancient bones splinter and break as he stumbled backwards, fighting to stay upright. The force of the blow was phenomenal, like a freight train crashing against his breast bone. Schmeisser coughed violently and hawked a wad of blood streaked spittle onto the floor.

He could smell it advancing again, coming for him.

Schmeisser still had a few tricks left, yet, though.

A massive razor sharp wooden spur slid silently from his right forearm, a natural wooden stake, he had slain overconfident vampires with it before, perhaps he would do so again. He dropped into a fighting crouch and drew the stake backwards, waiting for Alucard to close the gap between them. He circled left, as quietly as he could manage, whilst struggling to subdue the frantic hammering of his heart and control the ragged breaths he was drawing into his injured chest.

'I can hear your heart beating, Erl-King'.

Schmeisser spat again.

'Come out and fight vampire, stop cowering in the dark'.

'I can hear the air running through the puncture in your lung. You are really an odd breed, hunter, lacking so completely the regenerative abilities of the Lycanthrope or the Nosferatu as you do, it is not surprising that ultimately it was my species that triumphed at the Cathedral of Bones'.

'We killed them all vampire, not one left that accursed place alive!'

'You killed _children_, Erl-King, have you not listened to me? But tell me, how many of _you _are there in these modern nights? How many left the Cathedral? Two? Three? Perhaps when I have killed you, I shall find them and consign your entire race to myth'.

Schmeisser growled, low and dangerous like a cornered dog, 'let's see you finish me first, vampire'.

The lights flickered back on, and the Erl-King lunged forwards, driving his stake towards where he thought the vampire to be.

But, almost inevitably, he struck only empty space.

He looked left and right, desperately searching for his quarry. The hunter had easily become the hunted, he reflected grimly before slowly drawing to a halt. A thick viscous trail of duel struck his head; he wiped it away with one hand and tentatively looked up, towards the roof.

Alucard was standing, on the ceiling, once again in his black leather straight jacket suit, his head craned back, hair hanging limply – looking straight down at Schmeisser. But, it was not from the vampire that the drool had come.

Protruding from his body, one from his left shoulder, one from his stomach, and another from the centre of his back were a triumvirate of horrific, colossal _daemonic hounds_. Huge over-wide maws, lined with hundreds of massive shark-like teeth, flapped hungrily open, thousands of crimson eyes dotted each head, every last one focused unerringly upon the Erl-King.

'Your hatred has driven you here, to this, Erl-King; I remembered your kind as noble, tragically so almost, on the whole and yet I see you in the company of the genocidal, the deranged, the insane – this '_Millennium_' '.

Schmeisser gave no answer beyond a snarl as he crouched down on his powerful haunches, and made to leap, his stake still outstretched. Before he had even begun to drive himself upwards from the floor, however, the triple hellhounds struck him in a single mass, and he disappeared with a last defiant bellow beneath a blanket of shadow and snapping ivory teeth.


	17. King Nothing, Part Four

Below Glasgow City Chambers, 1964

The last tendrils of the Erl-King's blood disappeared into Alucard's boots, leaving not a stain on the concrete, as he stood flexing his hands, cracking his elongated spidery fingers, and slowly rolling his aching neck. The blood of the dead hunter, of the firestarter and of the slain artificial vampires had rejuvenated, reinvigorated and revitalised the ancient vampire, filling his emaciated limbs with new strength. For decades he had lain still and silent in his coffin-grave, trapped in an enforced slumber punctuated only by brief, agonising, periods of consciousness.

Such had been the price of defeat without death.

Just one more disappointment - for _him_, this time.

He spun on his heel and marched towards the tunnel exit leading up to the surface. He had not seen the night sky in sixty years, and was eagerly anticipating an encounter with more of these 'Millennium' soldiers.

After all, this was the most fun he had had in a very long while.

* * *

The Ruins of Glasgow City Chambers, 1964

Obershutze Maximilian Hoffman reloaded his StG-47 assault rifle, drew back the bolt and settled his aim down the winding staircase. His seven surviving squad mates were drawn up to his left and right, weapons similarly positioned. He had served with the Waffen-SS for three years, with the 6th SS Mountain Division 'Nord', before being recruited by the Major – during that time he had seen more than a little action, raiding and counter raiding across the Urals. And then later, with Millennium, he had fought across four continents on a hundred different missions, he had seen dozens of comrades cut down around him by all manner of horrors – so the loss of so many of his fellow troops bothered him not a jot – they were all replaceable, after all.

What was bothering him, or had been until very recently at least, was the disquieting clamour that had been drifting upwards from the open hatch at the foot of the stairs. Screams, the thunder of automatic weapons and an odd snarling, as if from the collective throats of a pack of gigantic hounds, had joined occasional dazzling flashes of blue light.

The noises, at least, had told them that there was _something_ going on down there. And now they had stopped, replaced by an ominous, pregnant silence.

Worse still, he had been unable to reach Herr Schmeisser, or the vampires, on short range radio.

He flicked his own set over to the command channel.

_'Loki leader this is Millennium Six – we are still at the head of the staircase, no sign of the rest of our troops, sir – the whole place has gone silent__, requesting__ further instructions'._

After a burst of static the Major's voice crackled back to him

_'Hold your ground __Six__, wait for contact with friendly __or hostile forces__ – then report'_

_'Yes sir'_ Hoffman replied somewhat dubiously, casting worried glances at the other men

* * *

George Square, Glasgow, 1964

The Major set his radio back down and drew his sidearm, snapping a pair of shots off around the edge of the statue they were sheltering behind. A murderous crossfire had forced them back from the steps and killed another of the artificials he had kept with him.

The surviving FLUH-500s circled the landing zone, occasionally jinking violently to one side or the other in an effort to dodge the odd surface to air missile streaking up out of the surrounding ruins. Heavy artillery and air strikes, combined with Lieutenant Van Winkle's covering fire had conspired to keep the resistance fighters just out of effective range.

For the most part.

The burning hulk of another transport helicopter, smeared across the square to his right, was testament to the increasing danger of the situation the Major now found himself, and his troops, in.

Casualties had been heavy as the British forces had pushed in on his little _kessel_, and with no word from the assault units he had sent into the tunnel in search of his quarry, things were starting to slip from bad to worse.

Not that the casualties themselves bothered him overly – he was much more concerned about having to withdraw from this exposed position before he could accomplish his primary objective: the capture of the Hellsing vampire.

If that were still possible, of course.

* * *

The Ruins of Glasgow City Chambers, 1964

Maximilian kept his weapon steady, pointing down the stairs.

When the electric lamps the British had placed around the entrance hall began to flicker wildly, he kept his weapon steady. When he heard the hatch grind closed, he kept his weapon steady. He even kept his weapon steady when his keen hearing picked out the faint clacking of steel soled boots on the stairs around the corner.

He most certainly did not keep his weapon steady when the leering monstrosity from the sewers stepped calmly around said corner, looking up towards them from the bottom of the flight, a dancing halo of shadow, seemingly drawn about him from the walls and floor, totally encircling his body.

Maximilian jammed his finger down on the trigger an instant before his compatriots, lashing the leather clad man at the foot of the stairs with a blaze of tracer fire.

As dozens of 7.62mm rounds streaked towards him, individual tongues of darkness detached themselves lazily from the mass about him, flicked out and curled themselves around each bullet, holding each one fast in a slick spiral of shadow.

He continued his advance, carefully ascending the steps as the Einsatzkommando emptied more and more rounds into him, which in turn were plucked from the air by more and more of the deceptively languid little tendrils.

Maximilian held up his hand just before his weapon ran dry.

'Pull back!' he snapped, before turning and beginning a retreat back into the courtyard. As he did so he tore out his radio:

_'Loki leader, contact with...something, from the sewers, maybe a vampire, maybe-'_ he cut himself of, ignoring the barrage of answering questions from the set, as he risked a glance behind him.

Dozens of the small tendrils, the only 'part' of the creature now visible from his position, whipping about over the edge of the staircase, abruptly merged together, forming a demented collection of viscous midnight black scythes, hooks and blades.

His squad, a mere few paces behind him had a bare few seconds to scream, fire off the last of their ammunition, or redouble their efforts to flee before the tentacles lashed out with blinding speed, eviscerating half a dozen men in the blink of an eye and coating the shattered marble interior of the corridor with crimson.

* * *

George Square, Glasgow, 1964

The Major cursed violently and jammed his radio back into his pocket.

He twisted around the edge of the statue just in time to see a solitary figure burst out of the entrance hall, rifle clearly discarded, and charge hastily down the steep stone steps, utterly heedless of the bullets tearing all around him.

He got halfway across the expanse of open square between the City Chambers and the Major's position before a huge black _tentacle_ lashed out of the entrance hall, plucked him from his feet and hurled him a hundred feet into the air as easily as a child might throw a doll.

With the SS trooper spinning through the air, the Major came to the conclusion that the suspicions he had been harbouring since his loss of contact with Schmeisser were well justified, Hellsing had indeed unleashed their beast on them – which made things somewhat more difficult, but at the same time so very much more _interesting_.

He ducked instinctively, as a gigantic black shape streaked out unexpectedly from the City Chambers, cleaving gracefully through the air above his head. A huge figure, holding one side of his open coat, which appeared to have been massively extended into a single immense shadowy _wing_, a great razor sharp arc, flashed over them, caught the now descending, and still screaming, SS trooper with a pair of vicious black shadow scythes and slammed down on top of one of largest statues lining the courtyard, like some great hellspawned vulture.

* * *

Maximilian screamed and vomited blood as the monstrosity that had caught him in mid air crushed his battered body down onto the top of the column.

A pair of the wicked blades that had butchered his men so effectively, extended from under this _things_ huge and billowing coat, were wedged firmly into his gut. It squatted over him, peering down into his pale and terror contorted features, curious, almost. Shadows _leaked_ impossibly from the creature, surrounding them both on all sides and effectively encircling the top of the pedestal like the rings of some heretofore unmentionable planet.

Maximilian spat boldly up into its face.

'YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME MOTHERFUCKER?' he screamed, mustering all of his fast failing strength, before tearing out his Mauser 77 sidearm and shooing his daemonic assailant clean through the eye, blowing out the back of his skull in a spray of gore and snapping back his head violently.

The squatting creature paused for an instant, and then swung his face back level with Maximilian, grinning maniacally and giving the SS trooper an excellent view of the murky night sky via the gaping hole in his face.

'I'll settle for two', it snarled, before ramming the scythes in even deeper and tearing the SS trooper into bloody halves, torso, head and arms spinning one way from the column, legs and abdomen the other.

* * *

_'__Loki Leader to Loki transports, all units withdraw, I repeat all units withdraw!'_

The Captain slammed a huge hand down on the Major's shoulder, heaved him to his feet and struck out for one of the now rapidly descending helicopters. The huge bodyguard had holstered both of his pistols and was now effectively carrying his superior officer in a massive bear hug, entirely unmindful of the odd stray round that thudded into him as he ran.

The weight of fire coming down on them from the surrounding buildings had decreased significantly in the past few moments. Unsurprisingly, it seemed that the British were as horrified by the arrival of the Hellsing vampire as his own men were.

The Major risked a glance up at the squatting gargoyle atop of his pedestal.

One of Lieutenant Van Winkle's guided rounds whirled about him like an angry hornet, occasionally diving in to punch through an exposed arm or leg. He swatted disdainfully at it, occasionally, as his eyes swept the still unfolding carnage before him.

The musket ball cracked sharply against his head, and he suddenly wearied of its incessant harassment, snatching out with one hand he pulled it from the air and ground it into a fine powder.

* * *

Andrew followed Sir Islands as quickly as he was able, weaving between fallen blocks of masonry and ducking through broken doorways, closing in on the flank of the Millennium position they tore through a ragged line of shocked resistance fighters and bolted out onto the expanse of the square.

After escorting the council members out of the 'back door' Islands had, with only the briefest of explanations, set off back towards the City Chambers, gun in hand, at a pace that Andrew had thought the aged man incapable of.

A pace that _he _was almost incapable of.

Bram and Kelly were somewhere behind him, lost in the warren of ruined concrete and steel that the City had become, whilst Walter had remained with the assembled luminaries.

'SERVANT!', Islands bellowed, through the snow and the thudding of rotor blades.

Andrew could only barely hear him from a few feet away, and yet the creature he addressed – perched hundreds of metres ahead of them, clearly did, visibly shifting its attention from the battle laid out before him to the tiny wind buffeted figure that had called him.

Islands scanned the hasty evacuation taking place ahead of him, searching between the descending and ascending helicopters, through the mobs of retreating soldiers.

_There._

A fat little Major, wrapped in a padded SS combat jacket, being carried bodily away by a second towering figure in a khaki storm coat.

'YOUR TARGET!' he snapped, pointing towards the pair.

* * *

The thing on the column sprang into the air; huge arc-wing extended, and swooped towards the ground in a hawkish dive.

He passed in a blur over one slowly climbing helicopter, lowered his single massive 'wing' so that it ran vertically downwards from his descent path, and sliced it clean through the packed transport.

It tumbled to the ground a blinding conflagration, burning, screaming troops spilling out into the snow.

* * *

The Captain heaved his superior into the nearest helicopter with one hand and spun on his heel to face the rapidly approaching vampire, a black silhouette against the earthwards tumbling wreck of the burning transport.

The last of the Major's accompanying artificials stood next to him.

If he had still been capable, he would have pissed himself.

The Captain dodged easily aside as the wing swept by, slicing a thin trench into the flagstones and bisecting the far less agile stormtrooper messily.

It dropped from the sky a bare few feet from the ground, several metres ahead of the huge SS bodyguard, its shadow-wing folding away to nothingness, it turned to face the Captain who had moved to interpose himself, legs spread wide, arms loose and ready at his sides, between the ugly bulk of the helicopter and the vampire.

It barely stopped to recover its balance before turning and hurtling itself at the Captain, the frenzied grin of the baresark splitting its ivory features, it raised on arm over its head, the blade of one hand poised to strike this latest foe from its path.

The vampire was inches from the Captain in an instant, its arm plunging down to split him into ragged hunks.

The SS bodyguard, not so easily phased, or defeated, caught the vampires leather clad arm with both hands as it swung towards him, holding it solidly in place above his head. The conductive force of the blow however, still managing to shatter the carefully fitted stones beneath the Captain's feet into compressed gravel.

'_Lycanthrope_' it rasped into his face, '_now aren't you people just full of surprises?'_

The vampire redoubled its efforts, attempting to force its arm downwards, like a knight at crossed swords.

And yet the Captain held firm, face empty and expressionless as his heels were ground further into the ground.

In a sudden flash of motion, he swept one leg up and drove it down on the side of the vampire's exposed left knee joint, crushing it grotesquely and overbalancing the creature, who was then forced to relinquish his attack and stumble a few paces backwards, the broken bones of its wounded leg grinding nauseatingly together. The Captain took a single short step forwards and brutally drove the palm of one open hand into the base of the vampires nose, snapping the bone and driving it upwards into whatever withered organ passed for its brain.

It reeled away, blood flowing from its eyes and ears.

Such a considered blow would have felled any mortal, the Captain knew, but in his long years he had fought more than enough of the undead to grasp the notion that such attacks were but delaying action and ultimately harmless.

Fortunately, a delaying action was all that he required, as the heavy thump-thump of the helicopter's blades reached a deafening crescendo and the ungainly aircraft began to climb sluggishly from the ground.

He whirled one leg out in a wide roundhouse, and struck his still drunkenly lurching assailant in the midsection, feeling the gratifying crunch of more breaking bones, before the un-natural force of the blow sent the vampire spiralling through the air and through the flaming wreck of the transport it had so recently downed.

* * *

The Major was gratified to see his bodyguard climb over the edge of the helicopter, and into the passenger bay, as it rose into the sky - although he knew any victory against such a creature must surely have been one of temporary good fortune.

The little Sturmbannfuhrer looked out over the now fast disappearing battlefield, with its smouldering wrecks and littered carcasses.

Running towards the helicopter, firing wildly up at them with a side arm was Sir Hugh Islands.

A single round struck harmlessly off of the transport, the rest flew wide.

He gave the Iron Knight a cheerful smile, waved gleefully and slammed the sliding door closed.

Awake, asleep, what did it matter? the Major thought. He had hoped to bring the dormant Hellsing vampire with him, back to the Wewelsburg, but now, with a little luck, they would come to _him_.

He knew Islands well enough, he thought, with such a weapon now primed and ready in his hands what other choice could he make in good conscience?

Yes, Islands would come, to Germania, to finish this, to kill _him_.

He was sure of it.

And the Major could not have felt more pleased.

(Woo woo! That's a half way through my loose ass plan from this story! Never thought I'd get this far. Lol. And I know I stole the 'how about two' line but I don't care. Thanks to Megatron for that.

On another note – should I write a Hellsing/Lovecraft crossover? Answers on a post card to the Goat With A Thousand Young!)


	18. Interlude: A Prayer For The Dying

_All you that in the condemned hole do lie,_

_Prepare you for tomorrow you shall die;_

_Watch all and pray: the hour is drawing near_

_That you before the Almighty must appear;_

_Examine well yourselves in time repent,_

_That you may not to eternal flames be sent._

_And when St. Sepulchre's Bell in the morning tolls_

_The Lord above __have__ mercy on your souls._

_(Traditional)_


	19. A Failure To Communicate

North of Wiesbaden, Greater Germania, 1964

It had finally happened.

After decades of petty bickering, infighting and back biting _it_, civil war, the collapse of the facade of German unity, had finally begun. The embattled, hounded and near extinct resistance movements of nigh on a hundred nations, from the English Channel to the Urals, from St Petersburg to Baghdad, would be taking heart and taking arms.

As Paladin Alexander Anderson looked through his second in command's field glasses, a captured set of German binoculars, he smiled. There was smoke on the horizon. Wiesbaden was burning. A flight of twelve Luftwaffe Focke-Wulf 340 'Butcher Birds' streaked overhead, heralded by multiple sonic booms. The blunt dangerous Butcher Birds were modern fighter-bombers designed to rival, and exceeded, the American F-4 Phantom II and Soviet MiG-21. They were regarded as superior to the older, larger, Reavers flown by the European client states and were piloted exclusively by Ethnic German forces.

Observing 340s in action, over the Reich proper, confirmed_ it_.

Whilst the radio they carried still gabbled emptily about 'slave revolts' and 'Communist-Jewish inspired civil unrest', the Third Reich was tearing itself apart and anyone with a pair of eyes in their head could see it. Josef Goebbels was conducting the orchestra on the Titanic but, this time, no one was listening.

Anderson handed the binoculars back to Marechal, the normally phlegmatic Frenchman could barely contain his glee, his massive smile mirrored the one already spread across the Paladin's battle scarred face.

'It was a long time coming'.

'Nay particularly unexpected, though' Anderson shrugged back.

And indeed it was not. The United States and the Soviet Union, or rather the military camp that masqueraded as the latter these days, had been on tenters hooks for years – awaiting the animosity between the convoluted German factions to achieve critical mass before spilling over into an inevitably brutal domestic conflict.

The old man, Herr Hitler, had organised the entire Nazi system with internal conflict in mind. Strength through confrontation had always been his maxim, by competing with each other endlessly the individual arms of the Third Reich were thought to become stronger, and thereby more prepared for the expected external clashes. With Adolf and his immediate successor, Martin Bormann, at the helm of the Reich the hatred between the multifarious state organs had been kept under firm control, but now, with Bormann firmly entombed in the Welthauptstadt's Necropolis there was nothing remaining to keep them from tearing each other to bloody ribbons.

Anderson's isolated little resistance group, carefully and almost impossibly slipping through miles and miles of German home territory, driving relentlessly for the Wewelsburg, had little to no clue as to who had really struck the first blow, the Paladin however, held his own suspicions.

There was no love lost between the monumentally powerful armed forces of the Empire, each one remained passionately jealous of the other two. They were less branches of one greater Wehrmacht, and more like the complete armed forces of a smaller nation.

The Kreigsmarine, with its vast northern docks centred on the military city-port of Trondheim, could put to sea a fleet to rival any in the world. Hundreds of surface vessels and submarines, harboured from Madagascar to the Canary Islands, from the Bay of Biscay to Arkhangelsk made up the bulk of its strength. Fielding four huge _Adler_ class super carriers as well as the nuclear powered _Peter __Strasser_, more than a dozen modern missile cruisers and flagged by the one hundred thousand ton refitted super battleship _Vaterland _the Kreigsmarine was widely regarded as a real challenge to the oft claimed American 'two ocean' naval superiority. Add to that a large and well equipped marine corps operating out of a score of bases, a modern fleet air arm and a potent nuclear arsenal and the Imperial war fleet appeared impressive – but it was, and always had been, carefully balanced by the opposing Heer and Luftwaffe.

The Heer, deployed to the sprawling borderlands of the Reich was the least likely of the German armed forces to take action against the other two. Despite its millions of men under arms, tens of thousands of Leopard II main battle tanks, potent close support air forces in the form of helicopter gunships and tank hunting aircraft, as well as a wide array of tactical nuclear weapons, the Heer was to far too busy on the frontiers to contemplate turning inwards without real provocation.

The Luftwaffe, on the other hand, remained the most potent of the three main arms of the Wehrmacht. With a reach longer and punch heavier than that of either the army or navy, it was considered to be the most liable to launch a real bid for dominance over the whole Imperial apparatus. It deployed thousands of aircraft across the globe, a massive strategic bombing force and not inconsiderable ground forces that were ostentatiously for the defence of their hugely abundant facilities. The air force, however, ranked only second on Anderson's list of potential culprits. Ultimately, he had always believed, the Wehrmacht remained loyal to the Party – bound to it by old Prussian values.

Unlike the less anachronistic and almost ubiquitous Schutzstaffel.

The legendary SS, architect of the extermination of an entire race, the hand behind the pen that redrew the map of three continents, the arm that held the Sword of Damocles over a billion souls. It had swollen monstrously since the war, further supplementing an already vast network of concentration camps and slave-factories, building a lavishly equipped private army with its own air arm, its own naval facilities, its own nuclear weapons – and retaining almost total control over the dozens of cavernous underground storage facilities scattered across the Empire that held the Chemical and Biological weapon stocks of a superpower.

Within the Third Reich the SS was everywhere, a law unto itself it held absolute sway over entire cities. The voice of the Reichsfuhrer-SS could be heard on every Radio station, everyday, in every home, on every television station, everyday, in every home. The blank Aryan features of SS men gazed down from countless recruitment posters on every street corner like some nightmarish elder brother, ever vigilant and ever ready. If Anderson had to guess, it would be the Schutzstaffel he would suggest.

He returned his attention to sweeping the road ahead of them.

They had stayed well clear of both the enormous autobahns and the narrower, yet still impressive, stretches that linked them. But here, as they had done several times in the last few days, they were forced to cross an open road. This one, however, was not as empty as the last they had traversed.

The twisted wreck of a Heer convoy lay strewn across the shattered asphalt.

A dozen armoured personnel carriers, cracked open like so many tin cans, were strung out in a long line. Around them a score or more of soft topped trucks, half tracks and fuel tankers smouldered. At the head of the column the heat fractured bulk of a Leopard II was clearly visible.

Along the whole length of the road corpses were scattered, some mangled by air to ground cannon fire, others horribly scorched by fire.

Three of Anderson's partisans picked through the wreckage whilst the rest of his men and women slipped across into the wood on the other side of the road. The Paladin and his second kept watch for Germans of any allegiance – he knew from long, bitter experience that none would welcome him.

His hand fell to the book in his pocket, as he waited, for what seemed like the thousandth time today.

The Gospel of Matthias.

The question as to whether it really _was _the lost Gospel, the collected writings of the disciple chosen by lots to replace Judas Iscariot, had been the first problem to pray upon his mind. And then, if it really were authentic – could those initial writings be trusted? He knew that more than one infamous heretic had referred to it in the past two Millennia, and yet, here he was obeying the instructions of a blasphemous wraith-thing that he had spoke with for no more than a dozen minuets – and barrelling off towards an SS fortress city guarded by tens of thousands – with no more than a few score, hungry, ill equipped, half-crazed die hard resistance fighters.

_But the star._

He pulled the book from his coat and ran his hand across the cover; the leather was almost unfeasibly ancient, broken and cracked. He looked up into the grey, afternoon, sky.

It was raining.

And there was a single, burning, red star in the sky.

'And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters; And the name of the star is called Wormwood' he muttered, raising one hand to shield his eyes, using the other to wipe the droplets of water from his spectacles.

'Father! Over here, one of these bastards is still alive!'

Anderson slowly drew his gaze away from the sky, barely registering the fact that the star had disappeared and almost entirely forgetting he ever saw it to begin with. He focused on the young resistance woman that had called to him as he subconsciously slipped the book back into his pocket. He then proceeded to jog lightly towards the mangled APC that she stood next to. Within its fire blackened interior a single German soldier, his skin red and blistered, was trapped under a twisted steel spur.

He grinned weakly up at them. From the look of him, he evidently did not have long to live.

Anderson switched from his normal mixture of English and French to German.

'Who did this soldier?'

'Fu-fucking SS, treacherous, cowardly, bastard SS'. He evidently did not care to whom he was speaking, a fact that would surely not have made his superiors happy.

'Jabos?'

He nodded.

'SS Butcher Birds – came out of nowhere, fucking bastards, killed us pretty good – Air Force boys got 'em though, "My Honour is Loyalty" my fucking backside'.

'The SS did this'; he waved his hand down the length of the ruined convoy 'you're sure?'

The soldier nodded again.

'We all knew it was coming, whole damn country was on edge, Reinhard bastard Heydrich' he spat weakly 'they attacked the Capital, SS airborne, real hard as nails motherfuckers, we showed them though'.

'How so?' Anderson prompted.

'They thought it was them that was trapping us, but, they got it all wrong – flew right into the Wasserfall lines they did, got shot out of the sky, hundreds of helicopters burning like little flowers. Them few that got through the SAM batteries met GroßDeutschland on the ground'.

He laughed a little, dourly, though.

'Bad luck for them. We saw the executions on the news, lined them all up against a wall and shot 'em. No survivors. No prisoners. Fucking turncoats – got what they deserved. Kaltenbrunner has declared the whole organisation _excommunicate traitorous_,that was where we were going, see - partisan'.

Anderson raised an eyebrow.

'Just so you know, before you kill me, we're pale fucking riders friend – and all hell follows with us – right to the gates of the Wewelsburg, best get out of the way, Generalfeldmarshall Bayerlein is bringing the whole damn Heer down on their rotten heads'.

The Paladin nodded to the woman that had found the trooper, turned, and walked away as she racked the slide of her Shotgun.

* * *

Marechal walked alongside Anderson, under the thick bowers of the forest, punctuating his argument with ever more violent gestures.

'We cannot go Father, it is suicide'.

'I am going, Marechal, there is no choice. You may leave any time you wish – I keep no man or woman here by force'.

The Frenchman spat on the floor and continued to argue.

'No. The Wewelsburg is impenetrable. You will not get near it, even you Father, you will die'.

'No fortress is impenetrable, Marechal, you know that. And the Heer don't seem overtly bothered'.

'The Heer will roll Schwerer Gustav out of storage, up to the fucking curtain wall, and then they will blow a hole a kilometre wide in it. Do you have your own super heavy artillery piece the size of a battlecruiser hidden somewhere around here, Father?'

Anderson laughed, 'no, but you said it yourself Marechal – the Heer are going to "blow a hole a kilometre wide" in the walls'.

His second's mouth hung open, aghast.

'You are joking, surely, Father'.

'No, I am not, Marechal'.

Anderson sped up, leaving the Frenchman and his protests behind. He would have to address his troops, and give them a choice; he knew that he, at least, had to break into the SS fortress, there was no possible alternative. But, he could not and would not force them to join him on what, as Marechal had quite correctly suggested, may very well be the death ride of the Iscariot.

He had little desire to sacrifice his own life, or the lives of his men and women, but he simply did not see who else there was to make this final stand against Millennium. He had heard nothing from the British Hellsing for decades, the Vatican had had no Section XIII for almost as long, he knew, the Soviets by their own admission were too weak, and the Americans squatted uselessly across the Atlantic, scoffing at what the last operative they had sent had called 'folklore and old women's tales'.

He pulled the note book out of his pocket again and opened it, folding out the little map he had put between its pages. He had seen the Black Sun, and the illustrations that the wraith thing had made in the book, and had copied them onto the new map of Germania he kept with him, sure enough – there it was, carved into the land in tracks of iron.

And at its heart the Angel Desolation, an Apep God, Jormungander, the Serpent that gnaws at the root of the world.

(Yes, so, Wasserfall is a SAM line, like those set up by the Bundeswehr in the 60s in OTL, Gustav is a REALLY huge gun, google it for a laugh, and whilst your there google for a pic of 'Black Sun' as well. Oh, and 'Jabo' is slang for fighter bomber. Also, this makes perfect sense to me – cus I'm writing it, but if anyone has any questions about technicalities (not plot points like 'what's in the Wewelsburg?' 'What is Myrmidon?' But stuff like – what's a Leopard II MBT like?) feel free to mail me.)


	20. Transitions

West of Perth, Scotland, 1964

Alucard idely ran his gloved hand across the assorted array of weaponry displayed on the little wooden bench. The last firearm that he had discharged had been a .303 Martini-Enfield, and the creations he prodded and poked now were entirely alien to him. Each was just another example of the extent to which human technology had advanced over the last several decades, he considered.

The ugly, inexplicably levitating contraptions that the Germans had escaped in, he had found particularly disquieting.

Fortunately for him, however, one of the many boons of the Nosferatu was the ability to draw knowledge from consumed blood – in this case the blood of a great number of soldiers - and through that he had developed a good operational understanding of almost all of the assorted pistols, rifles and submachine guns before him.

He hefted one heavy assault rifle from the table.

'Ah, a good choice sir, the StG-47, standard infantry weapon of the Wehrmacht, and most all of the armed forces of the European Union and Middle Eastern Coalition. Durable, easy to clean, firing a 7.62 x 39mm round with a muzzle velocity of 710 metres per second-'

Alucard sniffed and dropped the weapon back onto the table, to the dismay of the little quartermaster of the Perth cell.

'Sir, I would really recommend that you reconsider, the-'

'Now this' Alucard grinned to himself, lifting another and cutting off the suddenly bewildered quartermaster 'I like'.

'Sir, that particular weapon is almost twenty years old – there are much more modern-' he allowed himself to trail off. The Hellsing agent had adopted a grin of monumentally disturbing proportions, and further argument abruptly appeared to become not only somewhat pointless, but also potentially hazardous.

Alucard inserted the drum magazine that had been lying next to it, and racked the slide on his newly acquired Thompson M1A1 sub machinegun, more than a little pleased with himself.

* * *

Andrew sat down heavily.

He was exhausted, hungry and in desperate need of bath. His wounds had been dressed, although they still ached terribly, his shoulder particularly so.

He had lost his old Lee-Enfield in the withdrawal, and had replaced it with the M-14 that he now leaned against a leg of the battered conference room table. 'Conference Room' was what the local resistance leader had called it, although it looked an awful lot like a cellar with an old map on the wall to Andrew.

Sir Islands sat next to him, with Walter leaning against the wall behind them both. On the other side of the table, Mayne and Churchill flicked through a seemingly endless series of combat dispatches. The rest of the council had dispersed, along with the troops from Glasgow, into the highlands.

'It came off as well as we could have hoped' Mayne spoke up, still reading the papers in front of him.

Sir Islands made a non-committal noise that probably signified grudging agreement.

'The irregular formations pulled out and have gone to ground right across the country, fighting in the north is dying down' he smiled to himself 'but the Quisling forces are still trashing around like a wounded bear looking for us'.

'And London, down there, all open and exposed like that – how convenient, eh, old man?'

Churchill smiled along with Mayne.

'How long?' he asked the Irishman.

'The tape goes out in' he looked at his watch 'about five minutes. And then for the real offensive'.

'Can you imagine the look on their faces in Whitehall, or even better, in that monstrous carbuncle that replaced Berlin?'

Both laughed.

It was, after all, a good thought.

'I want the Ju-130, gentlemen'.

Both Mayne and Churchill ceased their increasingly jovial conversation, and turned to look at Islands, who still retained the same thunderous countenance that he had adopted some time after the conclusion of the battle for the City Chambers.

'Why in the hell would you want that great lumbering monster, Hugh, are you planning a holiday to Iceland?'

'I want it to take me into Germania'.

Jack Churchill removed his spectacles, placed them on the table, and then made a half hearted attempt to remove the expression of sheer incredulity that had crept onto his face.

'And why on God's green earth would you want to do that old boy?'

'I have to find them. This has gone on long enough. It is past time that Hellsing finished its own war'.

'So, what you're saying here Hugh, is that you want to go chasing off across "Fortress Europe" in our one and only captured German transport, after that fat little Major. Didn't you boys give him enough of a bloody nose as it was in Glasgow?'

'For the first time in decades Hellsing has the strength to strike a real blow against Millennium-'

'With your latest "agent"?' Mayne interrupted.

'Indeed. With Alucard we have a fighting chance at least, _and_ with the Germans at each other's throats we might be able to get through an opening the air defences of the Reich – the Luftwaffe is more than a little busy, by all accounts, after all'.

'They could be anywhere, Hugh, you can't just go flying off to God knows-'

'There is only one place that he would want to go'.

'The heart of the storm' Walter offered, from behind them.

'Correct. The Wewelsburg' Islands finished.

'You're insane. You can't just fly up to the Wewelsburg they aren't that stupid, old boy, and its-' Churchill blurted out.

'An impregnable citadel. I know. But I'm not going to simply fly over there and ask for permission to land'.

Mayne sighed and waved his hand towards Islands 'you evidently have some form of a plan Hugh, please, enlighten us'.

The Iron Knight leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands. 'We will take the Transport plane north, not east, to Norway. There, we will land, refuel and head south across Denmark and into the Reich'. He pulled a map of Europe from his pocket and spread it across the table. 'The underground movement on the continent, as you know, went dormant on the whole after what happened to the Poles in '49 – but – a great number of cells remain active, and have started to feed us with some excellent information on the current conflict'.

Islands took out a wax pencil and began to illustrate the map.

'In the west, here' he drew a large circle encompassing the western most provinces of Germania 'Alsace-Lorraine, Westfalen, Hessen-Nassau and several other administrative districts – the SS is in the ascendancy. In the south and East' he drew another large circle 'the party and the Wehrmacht retain power, but in the north' a third circle was drawn 'the matter is undecided'.

Mayne and Churchill nodded along, and urged him to continue.

'There is severe fighting between the Luftwaffe's 1st Hermann Goering Panzer Division supported by battalions from the 2nd Parachute Division and the 27th SS Panzergrenadier Division _here_' he drew a thick red 'X' across the city of Oldenburg.

'Now, our local Dutch resistance contact – call him a friend of the family – claims that the SS have overrun a small airfield _here_' another 'X' was drawn just south of the last 'at the village of Vechta. However, he assures us that the Grenadiers continued their push north towards the Oldenburg canal, and left the airfield after sabotaging it'.

'And you believe that you can still land there?

'I do'.

Mayne rubbed his beard with one hand and sighed again 'and what, exactly, do you propose to do when you get there?'

'Walk'.

'Walk?'

'To Westphalia'.

'And then what, just knock on the gate and ask to be let in?'

'I'll address that problem when we arrive'.

Churchill sat back in his chair and shook his head. 'It's mad, old boy, you'll never make it'.

'And we can't afford to throw away you and your men, and our only transport to boot' Mayne finished.

'With all due respect councilmen, this is not strictly a request, Hellsing has stood against the Darkness for this country for twenty years – alone – and our losses have been horrific. You owe it to us, gentlemen, to me. That plane'.

For a long moment the two resistance leaders looked at Islands, the cellar cold and silent.

'Very well, Hugh, _do what thou wilt_ – I've a feeling that you'd take the plane even if we refused you again'.

Islands ignored the jibe and turned to Andrew 'you speak some German, don't you agent?'

'Yes sir, a little'.

'Good – look for volunteers in the local resistance, people we can trust, who can speak German as well. We'll need a few men to run escort for us, I think'. Andrew nodded and stood up, ready to leave. Islands did likewise and with a curt 'thank you' he turned towards the door.

Before they reached it, Mayne spoke up once again 'not staying for the broadcast, Hugh?'

'No thank you, Robert' he replied before exiting the cramped little basement. As the three Hellsing men climbed the stairs outside of the door, they could hear the Lieutenant Colonel turning on his radio to listen to the precise tones of one Eric Arthur Blair begin his long recorded but only recently obtained, broadcast to the resistance, to England, to the world:

_'I__f you are hearing my voice then the tuberculosis that has wracked my body for these last six months must finally have claimed my life. My name was Eric Arthur Blair, but__ many of__ you may have known me as George Orwell. They, my rescuers, have asked me to tell you, the world, __a__ story._

_In__ the spring of__ 1946 I was arrested__by SS__ officers__, taken from my home in England, and transported to the continent. I__, unlike countless others,__ escaped my captors with the aid of the brave men and women of the Polish underground, but, not before I was taken to a place, a terrible place, a place not marked on any map or in any atlas that you may possess. It was a place called Treblinka, and this is what I saw...' _

* * *

Aboard the _Nineveh_, Over Cornwall, 1964

The Major sat down in the command chair and looked out over the bridge.

'Well, sir?'

He would consider the operation a success, he thought. Perhaps not as crushing a victory as he could have hoped for, but a satisfactory result nonetheless. He still faced a battery of problems, however. His current force was massively depleted, with only the Captain, Lieutenant Van Winkle and a handful of artificials departing Glasgow with all constituent parts still well attached, thereby, leaving the next phase of his plan entirely reliant on the Doctor and the troops left at the Wewelsburg.

Beyond the confines of the current situation, however, he was massively pleased with himself. The truly monumental proportions of the smile on his face were testament enough to that.

'Brief me on the situation one more time, Commander'.

The Captain of the Zeppelin, sighed a little, stood up and began once again.

'Sir, yesterday, at zero three hundred, the _Nineveh_ received a communication from the Reichsfuhrer-SS addressed to "all serving SS officers and enlisted individuals, loyal citizens of the Reich". It read _"__I regret to inform you that today...__not one hour ago__the treacherous__, capricious__ NSDAP party__, the faceless bureaucrats that have shackled us for so long, __launched a surprise__ attack upon _us_, the most loyal subjects of the Reich, bearers of the standard for the First Fuhrer's dream__, who have remained so loyal to them, and who have protected them from their foes for decades. They selfishly wish all power for themselves, and seek to remove us from the empire that we worked so hard to construct. A great majority of the __Wehrmacht__ has sided against us, and declared us mortal enemies. But do not fear__ the __Waffen__-SS shall prove more than their equal – but only with the aid of all loyal __Schutzstaffel__! As such, I regretfully declare civil hostilities, follow your commanders, fight well and remember __– One People, One Empire, ONE LEADER!"__' _.

'Yes, yes, all very Machiavellian - what was it that Herr Hitler said once, "the victor will never be asked if he told the truth"?'

'Are you suggesting that the Reichsfuhrer-SS is being untruthful Herr Sturmbannfuhrer?'

'Why yes, yes I am Commander. I am suggesting he is lying through his immaculately polished teeth'.

The Major lightly touched a button on the arm of his chair.

'I must object, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. This is my ship, and on it _no one_ will question the integrity of the Reichsfuhrer-SS.', he growled down at the little man, 'if Herr Heydrich tells us that the NDSAP has struck a surprise blow against the SS, then the NSDAP has most certainly struck a surprise blow against the SS. Your remarks border on the treasonable, and I suggest that you rescind them immediately'.

'How, ineffably polite of you Commander. What was it that Herr Hitler once said again...ah yes; "how fortunate for leaders that men do not think"'.

The Zeppelin commander opened his mouth, no doubt to vent some torrent of state approved vitriol, when the Major calmly drew his side arm and shot him, blowing a great gory mass of teeth, bone and brain matter against the party flag he stood before.

The sharp retort of the pistol unsurprisingly drew the attention of the entire Luftwaffe deck crew. More than one man reached for their own side arms, one particularly agile Lieutenant even managing to leave his console and draw. Expressions of shock, horror and outrage filled the bridge – expressions which quickly turned to fear and dismay as the twin doors ground open and the surviving Millennium Einsatzkommando, headed by the hulking khaki clad form of the Captain, entered.

The Major stood up and went to the edge of the command console.

'I suggest you lay down your arms and return to your stations, gentlemen'.

The crew visibly hesitated as the Major, too, paused glaring down at them. The Einsatzkommando levelled their weapons, and the Captain strode forward to lay a heavy hand on the Lieutenant who had got to his feet, shoving him back down into his chair with not inconsiderable force.

Hands were slowly withdrawn from pistol butts, and the room pulled back from the violent edge that it had teetered upon.

'A wise choice gentlemen', the Major continued. 'The Commander of this vessel, a Luftwaffe officer who had long been in the pay of the SS, has kept something of the utmost importance from you'. He turned and hit another pair of buttons on the arm of his chair, and the voice of the Reichsfuhrer-SS filled the room.

The expressions of shock and outrage returned.

'Every man here with his wits about him will recognise these words for the lies that they blatantly are. Contact your superiors. You have my permission as the new Commander of this vessel. Let them confirm what I say'.

The Lieutenant on the deck tapped the man next to him on the shoulder, nodded, and then turned back to face the Major.

'But you're SS as well, how do we trust you? If what you say is true how do we know this isn't some kind of trick? Are you telling us that you're really siding with the party over your own leader?'

'You're a bold man Lieutenant, for one, I give you a field promotion to second on this ship, active immediately – and as for your questions, my actions will prove my words. When your man has heard from whoever you can reach in the Luftwaffe, put him through to the loud speakers – you can all hear what I have to say'.

The Major turned and descended the steel framework stairs to the deck. Dismissing the Einsatzkommando with a wave of his hand he joined the Captain in the centre of the floor. As his troops filed silently out of the bridge, he pulled Lieutenant Van Winkle aside.

'Signal the Doctor – the code word is _'__Melot__' _– andwhen we land, I want you to deal with these idiots', he hissed.

She nodded her assent and continued out of the doors without a backwards glance.

The speakers abruptly rippled with a burst of static and came to life.

_'T__his is Colonel Werner Von __Halder__ of Luftwaffe northern air __command;__ I can verify that what this SS-__Sturmbannfuhrer__ has told you men is correct. We are__ currently__ in a state of war. __The _Nineveh_ would be far__ too vulnerable in a combat zone__, so__ consequently__ I am ordering you down in Calais...' _

'I would rather that you did not, Herr Colonel'

_'This is not a request, __Sturmbannfuhrer__ we have no means of judging if your sentiments are genuine or fraudulent. After due debriefing, we will consider-' _

'I consider this a unique opportunity, Colonel'.

_'What?'_

'The situation that this ship has found itself in'.

_'How so?' _he replied, cautiously.

'Tell me Colonel, have you ever heard the tale of the Trojan horse?'

(Another one down. I'd like to take this opportunity (not to chat shit for a change) but to thank everyone for the reviews that I've been getting. I really appreciate it. And to the person that asked if Alucard would fight Anderson. I'M NOT TELLING YOU. Lol. Sorry, plot points, plot points and all that ;D)


	21. Into the Valley

Havelland, West of Welthauptstadt Germania, 1964

The butt of an StG-47 slammed between his shoulder blades and knocked him back into the thick, wet, mud.

Gruppenfuhrer Wilhelm Reiter, formerly of the 1st SS Airborne Division 'Aurvandil' spat blood into the dirt and swore violently. There was still a bullet in his leg, and several deep cuts on his face and arms. His camouflaged fatigues had been removed. He wore his black SS dress uniform trousers, mud and blood smeared vest and battered combat boots. He was soaking wet, from the pouring rain, his hair matted into his eyes. They, his GroßDeutschland guards, had even taken his identification tags. His hands were bound behind his back, and the four men standing with him thought him utterly helpless.

Next to him were six corpses.

Each man, dressed much the same as he, had been shot in the head.

Behind them were the graves that they had been forced to dig, by hand, prior to their executions.

They had been the surviving senior officers of his division, and now, as far as he knew, he was the last.

The last man out of more than five thousand.

And there was a ditch behind him as well.

The whole operation had been a disaster. An honest to God, grade-A, priceless fuck-up. The NSDAP had known that they were coming. They had known when, and where, and who and how many. They had known more than most of the men under his command. The Wasserfall SAM defences had devastated his helicopters; Wasserfall SAM defences that were supposed to have been inactive. More than seventy percent of his helicopters were blasted out of the sky in a bare few minutes. Even then, however, the Aurvandil had driven on.

Into the Jaws of Death, into the Mouth of Hell and all that.

'Half a league, half a league, half a league onwards' he coughed, on his knees, looking into the mud.

The Heer guards gave him a queer look and then went back to their conversation. Something about how the War had put out the Football League. It seemed that that was their main qualm with the whole great mess.

Aurvandil had landed, but not where they had planned initially, on the outskirts of the city – it had not taken a great leap of the imagination to assume that they had been betrayed. Instead he had brought them in low, threading between massive skyscrapers and colossal monuments of dead heroes - into the square surrounding the Pantheon of the Army. Even there, though, GroßDeutschland had been waiting, it seemed that they had staked out every possible landing zone in the city.

'Cannon to the left of them, Cannon to the right of them, Cannon in front of them, Volleyed and Thundered'.

This time a sharp kick to the ribs was his reward.

'Shut up! Damn freak. The Colonel will be here any time now. After that we're free to shoot you. Maybe you should think about that, eh?' He went back to his friends and resumed his amiable chatter.

Aurvandil had been cut to pieces by the Heer units around the square. APC mounted Autocannons, Main Battle Tanks firing HESH rounds, surface to surface missiles, close air support – everything. The army had reduced their own monument to rubble and buried the Waffen-SS troopers under the ruins. They had pulled him, as well as a few others, out sometime soon after the collapse.

'Flashed all their sabres bare, flashed as they turned in air'.

The most egregious of the four men, the same who had just kicked him, rolled his eyes in mock incredulity and picked up the heavy iron club that he had taken such joy in using at the slightest provocation during the extended truck journey into the forest clearing that they now waited in.

'Well' he muttered as he walked back over 'if _you _want to make your last few minutes that much more uncomfortable, then who am _I_ to argue Herr Schutzstaffel?' The guard approached Reiter with an easy swagger and raised his rust pitted weapon high over his head. The Gruppenfuhrer watched his tormentors high boots slowly approach, squelching through the mud, from under his tangled, limp hair.

When he was within a few feet, almost at arm's length, Reiter gracefully swung into action, swiftly pulling his bound hands under him and then slipping into a low crouch, head still down and facing the ground. The guard took one more hesitant step before the Gruppenfuhrer's sudden motion brought him to a halt. He was reaching for his Mauser sidearm, now.

But by then he was already _far_ too close.

Evidently he was one of the few soldiers in the German army not to have heard, or not to have believed, the more than abundant tales of the life and times of Gruppenfuhrer Wilhelm Reiter. The same Gruppenfuhrer Wilhelm Reiter who had once escaped a team of Spetsnaz bounty hunters by killing all six of them with nothing more than a conveniently abandoned shovel.

Reiter drove himself forwards and upwards, grinning wildly through the ingrained filth smeared across his face as the top of his head connected firmly with the underside of the club wielding guard's chin. There was a satisfying crunch as the man's head was driven violently backwards, and he toppled to the floor in a heap. Without pausing for a second Reiter barrelled on, trampling the dead guard's body into the dirt as he silently charged the three remaining Heer troopers next to the truck.

The closest of the trio managed to draw his sidearm and level it before Reiter reached him and snatched it from his grip. In a few fluid motions he had pulled the weapon apart in his bound hands, separating the constituent components from each other and with dexterously applied strength rendering the weapon utterly useless.

He dropped the half dozen separate pieces into the mud.

The shock on the guard's face would have been plain for him to see if he had cared to look.

Instead, he swung both hands horizontally in a brutal hacking motion – crushing the unfortunate soldier's throat and sending him crashing to the ground. The Gruppenfuhrer jinked to the right almost instinctively as a salvo of StG fire split the air where he had been moments before, pulping a few damp saplings behind him. He was on the last two men an instant later, their one real chance lost.

The man who had fired went down first, swept to the floor by a low kick at his legs that shattered a kneecap with an audible snap; so disposed he was entirely helpless to prevent the steel heelcap of Reiter's jackboot from grinding down through the bridge of his nose.

A lunging blow from his forearms drove the final man into the flank of the truck that had brought Reiter to this God forsaken hole. With a little more time to react than his colleagues, he managed to mount some elementary form of defence, driving Reiter back a step with a hasty swing of his assault rifle and into a brutal counter that left the guard with a grotesquely broken neck.

By this point, the driver of the truck had half emerged from the cab, weapon in hand. A wild shot clipped Reiter's shoulder but failed to slow him significantly. A quick kick slammed the open door shut across the exposed shins of the driver – smashing them to fragments and dropping him into the mud with an agonised wail. A second kick, this time to the man's temple, finished the job. Knowing that his time was short and growing shorter, the Gruppenfuhrer dropped to one knee and whipped the combat knife from the belt of the last dead guard. With a quick series of cuts he freed his hands and collected a discarded StG-47, a pair of spare magazines and the nearest trooper's greatcoat, which he threw about his own shoulders.

A salvo of bullets struck off the bonnet of the truck, forcing him to duck down for cover.

He rapidly popped up and caught sight of the three pickets running towards him from their positions behind the execution sight, each firing somewhat excitedly from the hip. Reiter levelled his own rifle against his shoulder, flicked it to 'single action' and plugged a solitary round into each of the lead men, dropping them both with neat head shots.

The third man ducked down behind a nearby tree.

Reiter could hear him screaming down his radio for support.

Stupid, of course.

Any veteran would know that a tree, in warfare, can be as lethal to a man sheltering behind it as the small arms fire that it could shield him from; a hail of splinters can kill a man as surely as any bullet.

The Gruppenfuhrer yanked a grenade from the webbing of the dead soldier by his feet, primed it and tossed it overhand, into the tress behind the truck.

A dull 'crump' followed by screams proved his reward.

He stood up and took a few quick steps in the other direction before stopping, pivoting and returning to the corpse of the first guard that he had killed.

A quick rifle through the man's pockets produced what he was looking for.

His Knight's Cross to the Iron Cross with Golden Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds. He was damned if he was letting some stupid Heer bastard get a hold of that. As he broke into a long, heavy jog that he could maintain for hours if need be Gruppenfuhrer Wilhelm Reiter could not help but be a little insulted.

A mere eight men, to kill _him_. Utterly disgraceful.

At least they had done him the favour of removing the rest of the Aurvandil officers, though. He would have had to have done it himself or left them behind about now anyway.

He had work to do, after all.

'They came through the Jaws of Death, Back from the Mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of _five thousand!_'

And he scarcely registered the burning red star on the horizon.

* * *

Wewelsburg City, Westphalia, 1964

Reichsfuhrer-SS Reinhard Heydrich rubbed his brow, ground his teeth and walked away from the operations table.

He looked up towards the ceiling of the cavernous armoured command centre. Throngs of SS officers hurried back and forth across the numerous gantries. Buzzing unremittingly between the various work stations, they occasionally clustered together for brief words – no doubt comparing their own individual segments of information in an effort to create a more complete image of the immense clashes taking place beyond the perceived safety of the fortress walls.

Heydrich, with all of the collated facts that they were attempting to piece together at his disposal, knew that they really did not want to know the grim details.

Long, long before the wheels of his putsch had been put into motion he had accepted that the SS units he commanded would never be able to achieve real strategic surprise over the Wehrmacht and Party forces, after all, even the lowliest Slavic helot could have seen the ever escalating tensions between the various state organs, had he or she chosen to look up out of the mud for a second or two. He had gambled, however, on tactical surprise. The NSDAP had, for all intents and purposes, known that the Schutzstaffel would strike sooner or later – but they did not know precisely when, where or in what strength.

Or rather, they _should not_ have known when, where, or in what strength.

It had become frighteningly clear to the Reichsfuhrer that the full extent of his intricately laid plans had been revealed to his foes the very instant that the Wasserfall lines had devastated Aurvandil.

And from then on, things had only gotten worse.

Hoth and Von Luck, the two Heer Generalfeldmarshals that had previously pledged their allegiance to him had done precisely nothing to support his troops. Army Groups Scandinavia and Africa had not moved one inch, and upon contacting Von Luck he had received but a single line of encoded text in reply: _'Prussian Field Marshals do not mutiny'_.

He could not help but feel that had Ernst Kaltenbrunner fallen to his ambush, the same communication would have read very differently indeed.

Erhard had disappeared not long after that; his control of the Luftwaffe had obviously not extended as far beyond the walls of his air ministry as he had hoped. His reward for siding with the SS, so Heydrich's sources informed him, had been a bullet in the back of the head from one of his own aides.

'Herr Reichsfuhrer!' Obergruppenfuhrer Jurgen Kempf called over the continual low background chatter of the staff officers surrounding him, 'fresh dispatches have arrived from the 3rd SS Panzer Army'.

Reinhard turned, and with not a little reluctance, returned to the operations table with its bewildering array of charts and papers.

'Sir, Meyer reports that despite his best efforts our troops are being forced back – out of Silesia' Kempf drew a thick red line across the midsection of central Germania proper on the largest of the maps before him, 'the front line stands roughly here at present', he added. 'Our 2nd and 3rd SS Panzer armies are falling back in good order, and giving the Heer formations pushing in on them – 1st and 9th Panzer Armies – a hard time of it'.

On the large topographical map behind them, once again, a pair of officers began shifting the little black – for SS, and blue - for Heer, flags that represented the great swirling masses of men and machinery, to the left.

'A hard time is not good enough Obergruppenfuhrer. Our men are better trained, better equipped and, if you are to be believed, better led than their Heer counterparts. Give the order for them to dig their heels in and hold the line. If Meyer and Steiner continue this cowardly display there will be _grey_ uniforms here instead of the rightful black within a few days'.

'Herr Reichsfuhrer, with all due respect, simply "holding the line" in central Germania is not an option. Not only does the enemy dominate the skies across the entire sector, but the Kreigsmarine's Seabatallione and the Luftwaffe's ground forces are driving hard on our northern flank from south of Oldenburg right down to Hanover, there is still-'

'What do we have holding the northern flank?' Heinrich brusquely interjected.

'27th SS panzergrenadiers are still pushing on Oldenburg supported by what little is left of the 28th SS infantry, with the 17th and 18th panzergrenadiers to the southeast. They are all exhausted and pressed to the limit of-'

'Withdraw III SS Panzer Corps, _Viking_ and _Totenkopf_, from the reserve. Send _Viking_ north to hold the Kreigsmarine around Hanover – and have _Totenkopf_ deploy east to support the main battle line. We must stiffen our resolve, and our front lines, gentlemen'.

Many of the staff officers around the table exchanged more than dubious looks. The Reichsfuhrer generally knew when best to take a hand in crucial situations, and when to leave the real decision making to his experienced, professional, cadre of officers. This, markedly, was not one of those times.

'Herr Reichsfuhrer – please, you must at least hear me out' Kempf, again, speaking up.

'Must?'

The Obergruppenfuhrer, veteran of a hundred battles, paled visibly – but – with the lives of so many of his men hanging so delicately in the balance he forged boldly on.

'Withdrawing the III SS Panzer Corps from our already massively depleted reserves, sir, is hazardous in the extreme' he pointed to several points on the map. 'In all of these areas the Heer threaten to make a breakthrough, particularly here' he jabbed one finger over the city of Erfurt, capital of the Thüringen province 'if they do, we will have only the XV SS corps available to stem the tide – a unit which, I must point out, has little real combat experience'.

Heydrich nodded slowly, and signalled that he was at least considering Kempf's advice.

'Instead, I suggest a continuation of our slow withdrawal from the east – towards the westernmost provinces where we are strongest. Keep our reserves intact, and pull our men into a flexible, mobile, defence in depth – on terrain of our choosing' he swept his hand across the area directly east of the Wewelsburg. 'I can hold them here, I am sure of it'.

'You, Kempf?'

'Yes Herr Reichsfuhrer. I respectfully advise you to leave this fortress as soon as you are able and head east, to our holdings in Reichscommissariats Ostland and Ukraine. There remain several divisions of regular SS combat troops and more than one hundred and fifty thousand Islamic Auxiliaries simply-'

'I will not abandon the Wewelsburg, Kempf, not to you and not to the damn Heer!' Heydrich snapped.

'We may not have a choice'.

The command staff, as one, turned to look as a newcomer hobbled awkwardly down into the concrete amphitheatre.

Gruppenfuhrer Joachim Peiper, badly limping, still clad in his mottled brown and green camouflaged fatigues and sporting a blood and dirt stained bandage wrapped around his head, slowly approached the table.

'As you might be able to tell' he began with more than a tad of sarcasm 'I have just returned from the front lines, and can assure you all that our situation is rapidly slipping from bad to worse'. He pulled a crumpled dispatch from his pocket and gave it to the Reichsfuhrer. Reinhard scanned the few lines of type quickly.

'This is surely misinformation, Joachim'.

'I only wish that it were Herr Reichsfuhrer, but I can assure that it is entirely correct. I interviewed the reconnaissance pilot myself and he was not mistaken'.

'But how could they have mobilised that many men, in addition to the three Panzer armies they have in the field already, so quickly?'

'I would assume that the Heer must have had some form of contingency plan in place for just such an occasion as our little coup d'état, Herr Reichsfuhrer. The whole thing reeks of Von Manstein'. Heydrich passed the note on to Kempf, and he read it aloud to the staff officers.

'A large concentration of Heer units sighted, moving across Upper Bavaria, south of Erfurt. Est. _Four armies_'.

'_Four_?' one particularly incredulous officer gasped.

Kempf ignored him and set to scribbling on his map. 'The 1st and 9th Panzer armies are fighting a holding action' he swore and pressed one palm against his forehead. 'I should have seen this coming. They have pinned our best units in place whilst their own premier mechanised troops cut around our exposed flank – it's just like France in '40'.

'But the mountains – surely they cannot move through them so-', Heydrich began.

'They can and they will Herr Reichsfuhrer' Peiper cut in.

'We have already begun to receive information from the divisions we have stationed there', he continued.

'Which are?' Reinhard prompted, his stomach slowly and ominously twisting.

'The 7th _Prinz __Eugen _Mountain Division and a few supporting elements from the _Dirlewanger_ Brigade. Both are freshly returned from the Urals and in the process of rearming. They were placed there simply because there was no other unit available and because it was thought an unlikely vector of attack'.

'Can we shift III and XV corps?'

'There is no point' Kempf groaned, beating Peiper to the punch. 'We cannot hope to hold such a force! The only option is to fall back on the Wewelsburg, and make a stand here'.

'Agreed' the Gruppenfuhrer nodded.

'And what was this 'information' provided to you, Peiper?'

'The commander of the 7th forwarded a dispatch to me an hour ago. He claims to have come into contact with the Panzer Lehr Division, which is the leading element of 6th Panzer army. On the 6th's flanks come the 5th and 7th armies. Behind the spearhead is the 15th army, mopping up. The entire formation is estimated at around two hundred thousand men, and is thought to be commanded by Generalfeldmarshall Beyerlein'.

Reinhard fought to control his emotions.

'And one more, perhaps significant, development; the reconnaissance pilot that first sighted the Heer formations noted an extremely slow moving formation behind the combat troops. There are several photographs available'. The Waffen-SS veteran pulled three further sheets, as creased as the last, from his pocket.

They plainly illustrated an enormous formation of machinery that would have appeared far more at home on the battlefields of Medieval Europe, than on those of the Third Reich.

A _Siege Train_.

A stream of huge railway guns stretched out across the picture, Krupp K5s, a rail mounted 'Big Bertha' Howitzer, several colossal 'Karl' Mortars and behind them the disassembled components of at least one of the titanic Schwerer 'Gustav' cannons.

It was all so quickly going to wrack and ruin, the Reichsfuhrer reflected. This very latest news – but an afterthought from Peiper, had all the makings of just one more disaster to contend with.

'Do as you think best, gentlemen' he muttered, abjectly despondent, before he turned and walked away.

(Yeah, so, there's a Hellsing fanfiction without any actual Hellsing! lol. And yes, Reiter is infact a mulletless Nazi SOLID SNAKE. Really. And I know that strictly speaking, the Heer would be more likely to use less well...cannon...based methods of sacking the Wewelsburg but COME ON people. How frickin cool are railway guns? Am I the only one who thinks that? And no one did really huge guns like the Germans did really huge guns (except Saddam - buts that's another story and I'm rambling!) )


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